


mother says i deserve better

by nothing_is_beautiful_and_true



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Family, Friendship, Humor, Multi, Season 4 AU, Slow Burn, blatant wish fulfillment tbh, lots of fluff, spike and joyce friendship is precious and must be protected at all costs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true/pseuds/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true
Summary: After getting chipped, Spike goes to Joyce for help.A series of vignettes with Spike and Joyce's friendship as the foundation.
Relationships: Spike (BtVS) & Joyce Summers, Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 31
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the Rupi Kaur poem quoted below.
> 
> I like to think this is a direction they might've taken Spike's character if Kristine Sutherland hadn't requested less screen time in season 4.

“you whisper

_i love you_

what you mean is

 _i don’t want you to leave_ ”

\--Rupi Kaur, the breaking

...

Joyce parked the SUV in the driveway of her home.

She pulled the keys from the ignition, cutting short the local talk show host mid-rant (PCP gangs run wild; what are we spending our taxpayer dollars on anyway? If only Mayor Wilkins could see Sunnydale now). Popping open the trunk, she gathered as many grocery bags as she could carry. Once Joyce and Buffy had had an assembly line system when it came to groceries, in which one person would grab bags and the other would sort everything out in the kitchen, a leftover remnant from LA (“Many hands make light work,” Hank used to remark). But Buffy was gone, off to college; Joyce was alone now.

It was supposed to be liberating. Joyce’s girlfriends—the ones who hadn’t been eaten or turned into zombies, anyway—all talked about the children growing up and leaving the nest with bated breath and an aura of awed anticipation. And in many ways it _was_ nice. 

Joyce could bring men home without worrying about Buffy catching her in the act of being an adult who enjoyed having sex. The chances of said men being a robot or just evil in general had also dropped drastically, although Joyce was sure that was a coincidence. As was the house not finding creative new ways to be broken by some monster of the week. She could invite her book club friends over, drink wine, and moan about life without feeling that nagging sense of guilt. 

The house was far too large for one person. 

Even when Buffy lived there, some part of Joyce had questioned the purchase. An apartment would’ve been more sensible, and less of a strain on the budget. But it felt like their home in LA, only without Hank. At the time, she’d wanted some sense of normalcy and familiarity for Buffy (which was laughable in retrospect, not that Joyce had any way of knowing that)—and for herself. 

But it was just so large for one person.

Joyce set the grocery bags on the counter, going back out for a second round. Was it any wonder she spent most of her time at the art gallery these days? Although thinking of the art gallery in conjunction with Buffy made Joyce wince: yet another failure to add to the long list of failures over the past three and a half years. 

Sometimes Joyce felt as though she was being punished for not being a good enough mother or a good enough wife. Maybe if she’d stayed with Hank, worked things out, didn’t move to Sunnydale, Buffy would’ve never been called as the Slayer. It was an irrational thought, Joyce knew that—Buffy had been expelled from Hemery High because of her slaying—but the conviction persisted, especially in moments like this, when a task that had once been simple and easy as putting away groceries now stretched out twice as long, tedious and dull.

When the milk and eggs were at last placed in the fridge; when the flour and sugar found their proper place in the pantry, Joyce headed upstairs. She would finish packing for the Thanksgiving trip. She still had several days before leaving, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. And besides, it gave Joyce something to do. 

How were Darlene and the others doing? Her niece had been so little last time they’d met up; Buffy had held Cecilia in her arms and crooned the fussing child to sleep with soft, albeit off-key (Buffy was a great many things: a good singer was not one of them), lullabies. It had been nice, even as the strain of Joyce’s marriage falling apart cast a quiet shadow over everything.

Joyce was both disappointed and relieved that Buffy wouldn’t be coming along—Joyce knew the family saw her daughter as something of a black sheep these days. Really, it was for the best. Buffy could focus on her studies during the holidays. 

Joyce sat on the bed, staring at a blouse, unmoving. Maybe she’d take a nap. She still had time, after all. Her plane would be leaving early Wednesday morning. Illinois wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Or maybe she’d turn on the TV, see if there were any fun, soapy shows to watch, like Passions, Joyce rather liked—

The doorbell rang. 

Joyce started, gripping the blouse to her breast as though someone had tried to rip it away. A loud staccato of a knock followed, echoing through the large, empty home, and then the doorbell impatiently sounded off again. Standing, Joyce called out, “Coming! One moment!”

She had no idea who would’ve stopped by at this time of day, and in such a rude fashion, too. The knocking had picked up again, incessant and even a little desperate, if that was possible. Frowning, Joyce set aside the blouse and headed downstairs.

“What—?” Opening the door, Joyce was stunned by what she saw:

There stood a familiar-looking man, wrapped beneath a tattered blanket and _smoking_. Not in the figurative sense, like smoking tobacco, but literally smoking as though someone had set him on fire. Dark bags underlined his red-rimmed eyes, face sunken and skull-like and emaciated.

“Help… me…” The man collapsed over the threshold, laying in a heap at Joyce’s feet. 

…

Spike had been having a no good, very bad week. Year. Years, really.

First, he loses the Gem of Amara. Then he gets kidnapped by nancy boy soldiers. He escapes, which, hello, big bad, of course he does, only to find out he can’t feed for some reason. And to add insult to injury, Harmony, his (technically ex) girlfriend threw him out! Threw _him_ out! He was supposed to be the one throwing and staking and general ne’er-do-welling! 

At least someone was sympathetic to his plight. Joyce nodded along, making a batch of hot cocoa, as he told her of all his woes. It might’ve been a touch embellished, and Spike conveniently forgot about the part where he tried to murder her daughter (and her daughter’s friend), but he was a victim of circumstance, dammit. Joyce, right fine lady that she was, was the only person who understood that. 

And to think he’d almost gone and asked the Slayer for asylum instead. 

“That’s awful, William.” Joyce set the cup of cocoa before him. Spike was touched that she remembered to add the little marshmallows he liked, even if what he really wanted was blood, frankly. Much of their chat last year had been lost in the fumes of alcohol and grief, but he hadn’t forgotten the comfort she’d provided, before his wanker of a grandsire and her bitch of a daughter showed up, ruining everything. “But I’m not sure how much I can do for you. Maybe we should call Buffy…?”

“No!” Spike straightened. “Err, no. Least, not yet. She wouldn’t get it. Just need a kip and some blood, anyway, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Blood?” Joyce looked troubled. She’d been rubbing the same spot on the counter with a damp rag for the past couple seconds.

“Pig’s blood’ll do in a pinch,” Spike quickly reassured her. He wanted to smack himself; had he really just offered to drink that swill willingly? Christ, he needed to figure out what was wrong, the sooner the better. “Just have to swing by the butcher’s store, no mess, no fuss. And, uh, if you have any Weetabix?”

“Oh. I don’t, but—I just went shopping. I can swing by tomorrow after work?”

Spike almost lost his temper. He hadn’t eaten in over a week. Her scent pulsed in his throat and he had to bite back the bloodlust sliding out of his gums and over his brow with a grunt. Instead, Spike focused on drinking hot cocoa, a vein ticking in his temple. “Right then.”

Joyce hovered, uncertain, by the sink. She was still rubbing at that same spot with the dishrag. An awkward silence bloomed between them. 

“We have a guest bedroom. Would you like to take your… kip there?” she asked. 

Spike considered the offer. “Wouldn’t happen to have a cot in the basement, would you? Prefer places underground, since, y’know, vampire.”

“O-of course.” 

Joyce almost walked down still holding the rag, paused, turned back, and set it aside. Meanwhile, Spike opened the door to the basement for her, running on autopilot. She seemed surprised and then nodded, smiling.

“Thank you, William.”

“‘S nothing,” he said, a touch embarrassed himself. Where the hell had that come from? 

The basement was much like any other basement—cool and dark. At least Spike could depend on some things to stay the same. Joyce kept the laundry down here, it seemed, the washing machine rumbling softly in the corner. 

They pulled out the cot, a ratty old thing. Joyce apologized profusely, but Spike didn’t mind; he’d slept on far worse before. He hadn’t brought much aside from the duster on his back and the tattered blanket still gripped loosely in his hands. 

Once everything was satisfactory he flopped forward, dragged down into the covers by his own exhaustion. The hunger had dulled into an ever-present ache that sapped at his strength. Still, Spike had lasted this long, he could last a little longer. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” Joyce wrung her hands now that she had nothing to distract them with. 

It occurred to Spike that she was worried about him; he couldn’t recall the last time anyone had worried about him. Dru, maybe, when he’d been put in the wheelchair. But it had been in her own, strange way, and she’d ultimately betrayed him for Angelus regardless.

“Nah. Not much they can do for the undead, Joyce. Once I get some blood in me I’ll be fine.” 

She was speaking, but the words came from far, far away as Spike slid into blissful sleep. His dreams were strange; he didn’t remember them at all when he woke up hours later. He never did. 

…

Joyce sat in the living room. The television was on. Passions was airing. She stared at the phone from across the way. 

She really should call Buffy. This was Slayer business. Nothing to do with her. 

Yet…

And yet…

Spike wasn't anything like the only other vampire Joyce had any sort of real experience with, the madman who’d kidnapped her and threatened Buffy. Just remembering that night made Joyce’s hands shake. Buffy had also told her many cautionary tales about the species overall, and she did still have some vague memories of parent-teacher night (and he-who-wouldn’t-be-named, although her dislike of him had nothing to do with vampirism). But Spike mostly seemed sad and lonely and hurting.

And this house was far too big for one person. 

Besides, he couldn’t attack anyone anymore. Why would Spike lie about that? So he was safe. Not Slayer business at all. 

Joyce heard the basement door bang open. Low swearing reached her ears before Spike did—and before she saw Spike she saw the laundry bin filled with clothes. 

“You finished the wash.” Joyce couldn’t keep the shock out of her voice. Domesticity and vampires seemed, as Buffy might’ve put it, rather unmixy. 

Spike paused, blinking at her over the mountain of linens. He looked around, almost expecting someone else to materialize and take the bin from his hands: claim ownership over it.

“Oh yeah.” He frowned. “Didn’t mean to.” He added, “I mixed the whites with the colors.” This was obviously a lie. 

She couldn’t tell if he was reassuring her or himself. Then Spike caught sight of the television and his face brightened. He said, “Oh! Passions! Is Timmy still stuck down the well?” 

“Actually…” Joyce took a deep breath before catching Spike up on the sordid affairs of Harmony residents. He listened intently.

She didn’t have any male friends to discuss the show with, and even a decent number of her female friends regarded soap operas with thinly veiled disdain. Well, they’d have a right to judge when their daughters were regularly risking their lives every night, while they were trapped alone in a too-large house utterly helpless to prevent it.

Which was how she found herself on the floor, folding clothes with Spike, earnestly discussing Passions and soulmates and how Timmy was just the best. 

“... You can stay, you know.” The words slipped out mid-tirade. Spike tilted his head. “You can stay as long as you like, William. I don’t mind. But you’ll need to learn to watch your language around here, and no smoking inside the house, either.”

He didn’t answer right away, twirling a sock on his ring finger. “Ta, love.”

If Joyce didn’t kick him out, she’d have to tell Buffy sooner rather than later. Not because he was a vampire and she was a slayer, but because he was a stranger staying at their house. The apprehension was so strong, Joyce almost regretted the offer. 

Then Timmy managed a daring escape; Joyce and Spike both gasped in unison. After that, she found it very hard to regret anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how much I enjoyed writing things that are short and sweet. lol.

It was rather strange having the house to himself. Not that Spike hadn’t, before now. Of course, Joyce would leave for work and all that human rot. But this felt different, what with her hundreds of miles away visiting relatives to celebrate genocide. He could get away with anything and she’d never know or find out too late and he’d be long gone.

Part of Spike wondered if Joyce was afflicted by the same stupidity plaguing most of Sunnydale. Or maybe she just trusted him. But he found the latter idea unpalatable, preferring to settle comfortably within misanthropy. 

Spike was naked.

He always slept starkers (a fact Joyce had learned the hard way), and since the house was vacant, he couldn’t be bothered putting on airs. Just wander about and enjoy the breeze between his legs. Spike hadn’t really explored before now, hadn’t given it much thought. But with Joyce gone he was bored. 

She’d stocked the fridge with enough blood to survive a nuclear winter, nevermind a long weekend. Spike grabbed a mug—the words THIS LADY IS ONE AWESOME MOM and an arrow pointing up decorated it—before heating up his dinner. Pig’s blood was much like American craft beer; a cheap imitation of the good stuff. He sighed mournfully.

Spike hadn’t ventured upstairs yet. Time to rectify that. If he was good and soulful he might’ve felt bad about invading the Summers girls’ privacy: he wasn’t. There were three bedrooms, an attic, and a bathroom (two if you counted the one adjoining the master bedroom) on the second floor. Hank Summers must’ve been loaded before the divorce if they could afford this place, even granting Sunnydale’s abysmal property values.

The guest bedroom was barren and unremarkable aside from a sewing machine occupying the corner desk. 

Joyce’s bedroom was overwhelmingly floral. Spike sat in front of her vanity and pretended to put on makeup, amusing himself by imagining himself as an evil art gallery overlord. Only paintings depicting mass destruction and misery would be allowed in _his_ exhibits, that was for damn sure. 

Then he actually did apply some lipstick, a dark burgundy that would’ve paired well with his duster if he’d bothered to wear it. Smacking his mouth, Spike tried some mascara next, swearing loudly when he almost poked his eye out with the wand. This had been easier when Dru was around, a realization that depressed him. It might be time to move on from the glory days of New York. 

He paused, staring at the blank mirror for several long minutes. Spike took pride in having perfected the long-honored male tradition of thinking about nothing. Absently, he sipped his blood, studying a picture of Joyce and the Slayer resting atop the dresser. They both looked very young in it, hugging and beaming on the beach in the sunlight. A strange feeling formed in the pit of his stomach, and Spike left.

He cleaned his mug in the bathroom sink, too lazy to head back downstairs, and washed his mouth. Then he took a shower, scrubbing the makeup off his face. Bollocks. He’d forgotten to steal hair gel and bleach again. His hair loosened under the water, curling tightly after he stepped out and dried off. Oh well. Hopefully, his roots weren’t showing yet. 

Last but not least: the Slayer’s room. Spike stifled an odd swell of apprehension, half-expecting her to drop from the ceiling and stake him. He couldn’t help but recall Dru’s accusation regarding his slayer obsession. That particular absurdity still rankled. Women. Always seeing things that weren’t there. Spike growled softly, pushing his way inside.

It was the pastel to her mother’s floral. Someone really ought to have a word with both girls about their interior decorating skills. The Slayer’s scent lingered, honeysuckle and vanilla, drenched in the very fabric itself. Although it was quite stale; when had she last visited? 

Spike jumped on the bed, bouncing a few times, ankles locked and arms wrapped around his head. He could just picture the Slayer’s outrage if she found out he’d been here butt naked. Spike would definitely have a nice wank to that imagined expression later. 

Sitting up, another picture caught his eye. The Slayer was just a tot, all fancied up in a leotard and wearing ice skates, matching the sparkles dotting her suit with a glittering smile. Quite the stark contrast from the permanent resting bitch face she wore around him (then again, he inspired many people to look that way, not just the Slayer; it was a point of pride). He folded the frame face down, a gesture similar to how Dru used to turn her dolls away when they’d been naughty. Spike felt strange again.

The Slayer, capital T, capital S, had always been an obstacle to overcome in Spike’s mind. A stepping stone on his own personal path toward societal liberation. Much like how most people were happy meals on legs. In some ways, he'd almost abstracted the Slayer from Joyce, thinking of her more as Joyce's daughter—an enigmatic figure who looked and annoyed him much like the Slayer, but wasn't her, actually. These signs of history, of life outside slaying, made her feel… real, somehow, in a way the quips and the apocalypses and the boyfriend drama never had. 

He left the room quickly after that and decided he was never coming back.

But not before nicking a pair of knickers. Because, evil. 

…

Joyce needed more wine. 

Lolly had brought along her entire brood. The cousins and their various spawn spilled out like cockroaches, running amok in Darlene’s old ranch house. Eddy, predictably, went into his car and shot up heroin as soon as he could get away. Richard wouldn’t stop yammering on about his alpaca farm. Could they _be_ any more midwestern? 

Thank god Buffy was an only child; a Californian girl through and through.

Of course, Lolly herself kept making cutting remarks about Buffy, about her absence, about the burned down gymnasium and (dropped) accusations of murder. She’d always resented how much closer Joyce and Darlene were, always resented being relegated to problem child, and took no small satisfaction in rubbing Joyce’s nose in her own imperfections whenever the opportunity arose. 

It used to be she’d always bring up the (one!!) time Joyce took acid with her friends, resulting in her parents’ fish winding up fried and eaten beneath a rainbow. Lolly had the grace to never press the Hank issue, however—most likely because she’d had almost as many husbands as children, and wasn’t in a position to throw stones.

At least the turkey was delicious. And everyone complimented Joyce’s green bean casserole, which was nice. Except for Derek, who’d muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘white people’. That was probably just a cough, though. It had been making the rounds recently. 

It was getting to the point where Joyce needed a little alone time. After some thought, she decided to call Spike. She’d already checked in with Buffy—something about bears and Xander having syphilis, which was much more than she wanted to know, really—now to find out if her house had burned down in her absence. 

He answered on the second ring.

“Hullo?” Spike sounded almost cautious. 

“William.”

“Joyce!” 

It was nice to be appreciated. Thanksgiving, and all that. 

“How’re things?”

“Well, house hasn’t burned down yet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Spike could be borderline prescient when the occasion demanded it. 

“William, I think I might be the worst mother in the world.”

That was definitely the wine talking. 

“What?”

“I tried to have Buffy burned at the stake.” 

It was Joyce’s darkest moment, the absolute nadir of a parenting career that included kicking her daughter out in her list of worst hits. She knew Buffy didn’t blame her, but that didn’t stop the nightmares. No matter how terrible Lolly was at mothering, she’d never have done _that_ to any of her children. Not even Eddy. Maybe.

“Well, the dozy bint prolly had it coming.”

“William!”

Joyce couldn’t help but laugh at the blatantly ludicrous response (what did dozy bint even mean?), although her stomach clenched with anxiety. Spike seemed to realize this because he changed tack. 

“Look, would a bad mum make a slayer that good at kickin’ my pasty arse? Don’t think so.”

Joyce was concerned, then flattered, then concerned again, all in rapid succession. 

“I think that has more to do with Buffy than me,” she admitted at last. 

Silence. Joyce could almost see Spike’s brain working overtime through the phone. The image brought a wan smile to her face.

“Y’know, mistakes happen. And children can be nasty lil buggers. Once, I was looking after this kid, and, well, I was right stern with the Annoying One, let me tell you. Makes almost frying the Slayer up look like, ahem, child’s play in comparison. Plus ’m sure you didn’t mean nothing by it—believe me, I definitely did.”

A thud could be heard like he’d smacked his thigh for emphasis. 

Oh.

“Oh.”

Joyce realized with startling, sobering clarity that Spike wasn’t, well, human. He’d hurt people. Many, many people. A miniature mental Buffy was jumping up and down, screaming danger in her ear. 

Spike again seemed in tune with her train of thought, because he quickly added, “Don’t worry, was evil. Brat deserved it and then some. And just meant you wouldn’t place dead last if parenting was, uh, a competition. The stories I could tell about Dru, I mean—”

“... Right.” Joyce was going to be sick. She’d left him _alone_ in her _house._ “I should go.”

“Oh. Right. I, uh, you hanging in okay over there, Joyce?” Spike sounded sheepish. 

And just like that, the fear and disgust drained away. It was wrong, and it meant she was an awful person, frankly, but Joyce couldn’t bring herself to hate Spike. It was like being the mother of a school shooter, except she wasn’t his mother, so nothing like that. But still. He filled the hole Buffy left behind. Not completely—no one could command space quite like Buffy, but he was the only one Joyce knew who came close.

And he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore, anyway. In some ways, he was a caged lion being studied at the zoo. She could learn more about the life Buffy lead, a life she often kept hidden from Joyce, even now. 

Besides, it was Sunnydale. The child likely _was_ evil. Rationalizations firmly established, she opened her mouth:

“Well, you know how family goes, I imagine. Brings out the best or worst in people.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I do.”

Joyce believed him, oddly enough. Then again, Spike hadn’t given her a reason to doubt yet. What would be the harm in giving him a chance? “Goodbye, William. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Later, Joyce.”


	3. Chapter 3

Joyce had been having a long day at work. She’d gotten into another argument with one of her favorite artists, a little spitfire of an anchor baby who went by the name Pan these days. Pan was very picky about what she agreed to put up for display in the art gallery, insisting on calling them products (“when I create art, it’s for me and my loved ones; these are meant to be consumed”)—quite the turn off for prospective buyers. 

Especially since Joyce knew what Pan could create when she cared. The long, circular argument had wandered into pretension and Spanish both. Artists were quite possibly some of the most infuriating people in existence.

Deciding to put the day behind her with a glass of wine, Joyce swung open the door to 1630 Revello Drive, catching a whiff of something strong and spicy inside. The blinds to the kitchen had been drawn, and Spike was up, humming off-key under his breath while working the stove. 

He turned long before she approached, having clearly heard her. It could be unnerving at times, how sharp his senses were. He always noticed when she wore different perfume, nostrils flaring like a dog; was always alert when she descended into the basement, eyes reflecting light like a cat. 

After returning from the Illinois trip, they’d gone shopping together for a couple more outfits. Joyce could fondly recall all the times she'd taken Buffy to the mall; they shared a love for retail therapy that neither had ever quite shaken. Spike dressed in slacks and a hoodie, his hair curling with a hint of his natural roots showing, cut a very different figure from the man who once claimed to have formed a band with her daughter. 

“I didn’t know you cooked, William.” Joyce set down some pamphlets on the dining room table, suppressing a sigh. 

Running an art gallery was far less glamorous than it seemed. Most of their money came from forming connections with corporations, corporations that bought pieces to decorate their lobbies. And corporations generally preferred comfortable and safe, or over-the-top exotic. No wonder someone like Pan was so cynical. 

“Oh. Yeah, y’know, it’s—curry.” He waved vaguely in her direction. 

“Dry or wet?” she asked, mostly to fill the silence. Spike shrugged. “I’m going to head back and get some billing done.”

“Ta.” A moment of hesitation. “You haven’t heard anything about the soldier boys, have you, love?”

Joyce frowned. “I haven’t. But you know, Buffy probably—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spike quickly cut her off. “Just checking.”

Even if she had heard anything, Joyce wasn’t sure she’d have told Spike. He never outright stated it, but she could tell he hated being defanged. She felt anxious as a result, further compounded by him coming home one night bloody and bruised. It reminded her of Buffy in the worst way, especially since he refused to talk about it. 

Eager to take her mind off such melancholy thoughts, Joyce headed into her study, losing herself in the numbers game. It was a delicate balance; Hank’s monetary contributions played a large role in keeping them afloat, a truth that really took the wind out of Joyce’s ‘I’m an independent woman who don’t need no man’ sails. And now she had the added expense of Spike, who should probably be paying rent. But he didn’t have a job, or a green card, and she wasn’t exactly sure how any of that worked when it came to the undead, and besides, he wasn’t that much of a strain on the budget compared to the average person or heaven forbid a teenage girl—

Spike poked his head around the door. “Foods ready, if you want some.”

He sounded shyishly boyish. It reminded Joyce of when she had first found out she was pregnant, and secretly yearned for a son. She wasn’t sure she’d ever tell Buffy about that—it came across as a betrayal to both her gender and her daughter. 

Joyce smiled. “I’d love some.”

Spike looked an odd mixture of smug and unsure in response.

He’d already set the curry out on the table. The strong scent of spiced chicken struck her when she entered the dining room; the heat of it dried the back of her throat. Spike was talking about how Indian merchants used to prepare curry for sale to the British army. He had that blunt, matter-of-fact tone he got whenever describing colonialism or mass atrocity, and a faraway gleam in his eye, as though reminiscing about… something. Not something evil, hopefully. 

“This looks wonderful, William.” Joyce pulled up a seat, doling out a healthy serving of the wet curry. She didn’t particularly enjoy spicy food, but she was strangely fascinated by the idea of a vampire cooking, and what their cuisine might taste like. 

Spike made a quick half-movement, and then shrugged again, sitting down opposite her. They hadn’t eaten together that much—it tended to be rather awkward, especially whenever Spike added a liberal dose of blood to his meals—but at the moment there was an air of camaraderie that kept the conversation flowing. 

She found herself recounting her day, and he listened with rapt attention. For someone both talkative and impatient (he’d once left her standing there discussing how to tell Buffy about his tenancy with thin air), Spike was a shockingly good listener when in the mood. It was both cathartic and comforting, the lack of judgment, the knowledge that he would always take her side, even when she was in the wrong. 

Joyce absently took a bite of her curry. At first, all she noticed was the texture of the chicken, cooked so moist it fell apart in her mouth. Then—

Oh. Oh, god. 

Her mouth was on fire. 

This wasn’t just mere spiciness. Whatever it ranked on the Scoville scale, it went far beyond what someone who preferred mild food could handle. But Spike positively lit up as he watched her eat, and somehow, Joyce found herself taking another bite. Now he was launching into a rant about selling out and eating the rich (only figuratively, she imagined), taking her silence as his turn to contribute, chowing down on his own curry with a merry gusto while waxing poetic about the British punk scene. 

Joyce was actually sweating. She managed a couple more mouthfuls, each one seeming to last its own individual, agonizing eternity. She might vomit at this rate, her tongue going numb, eyes prickling with unshed tears. Finally, she waved the white flag and set her fork aside. “William, I’m sorry, I-I can’t eat this.” 

“Eh?” Spike frowned. He turned defensive. “I didn’t poison it!” Then he cocked his head, as though running through the ingredients in his mind’s eye. Oh, god. “I didn’t!”

Instead of answering, Joyce launched herself toward the fridge, where a carton of milk waited. 

…

They were watching football together on the telly. Joyce didn’t really get the beautiful game, bloody uncultured American that she was, but he’d win her over eventually. At the very least, she seemed interested. 

“Are those demons?” she asked, the camera panning to men and women with their faces painted red, taking a bite of her cold pizza slice. 

It was simple, bland and oven-baked, cheese only, leftovers from another night. Boring, in Spike’s opinion. But he was surprised by how awkward he felt about apparently burning off a decent chunk of her taste buds, and therefore, for one of the few times in his unlife, kept his opinion to himself. 

“Worse,” Spike groused, nursing a beer. “Scousers.”

Joyce looked confused. It reminded him of the Slayer, weirdly enough. And now to repress. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get sports.”

The figures moved around on the screen. Two own goals already—this game promised to be on top. Then again, matches against Liverpool usually were. 

“What’s not to get? Bunch of sweaty blokes fighting over a ball. ‘S great.”

Spike slouched low in his seat. He hadn’t been sold on the sweats or the sweatshirt during their shopping spree, preferring clothes painted to his body (or no clothes at all). But he had to admit they were incredibly comfortable for slumming it. When he wanted to act sulky and not-brood, he could flip the hood up and pull at the drawstrings so that it’d close around his face. Kind of like a coffin that way.

Maybe Spike would let Joyce buy those Star Wars pajamas for him after all. However, he drew the line at onesies. Evil creatures of the night did not wear onesies, neutered or not. 

“Hmm, well, when you put it like that.” Joyce smiled tightly. 

Spike ran through his female expression index, trying to decipher the look. Hopefully, it was an, ‘amused by your English wit’ look and not a ‘you’re getting kicked out of the house for your terrible cooking’ look. But spending over a century with a barmy bird skewed perceptions. 

Joyce’s look could mean anything. It could mean nothing. It could mean both. It could mean neither. Women were a mystery beyond Spike’s capacity for understanding. He’d like to blame it on the lack of soul but he hadn’t really understood them as a human, either.

And the worst part was that Spike hadn’t even been trying to cause trouble. He’d done—well, not good, certainly not that, he’d been peckish and she’d been, there, same place same time, a matter of convenience, all that rot: just figured he’d offer, no harm no foul. Only for it to blow up in his face. Typical. Even his not-evil not-plans went awry these days. 

Somehow, someway, this was the Slayer’s fault. Spike wasn’t sure quite how yet, but when he figured it out, he was adding it to the long list of grievances he had with her. 

An awkward silence fell between them. Joyce was watching the game again, frowning slightly as a play was flagged dead for offside. He prayed she wouldn’t ask him to explain the call, he didn’t think he had the patience for it.

“Just so we’re clear,” Spike began, having run through a mock conversation in his head multiple times, all of which ended with him getting kicked out, “had the best intentions. Not like I—only ever had to cook for myself, before, yeah? Vampire and all.”

Joyce blinked, tilting her head. “You never cooked for that girlfriend of yours?”

Spike stilled, rapidly moving thoughts grinding to a halt. Oh. Well. He hadn’t expected that line of questioning, although maybe he’d have preferred the dramatic ‘begone with thee foul kitchen fiend’ speech he’d built up in his head. 

“Dru wasn’t into that sorta thing.”

“Well, her loss,” Joyce said, flooring Spike. 

“Didn’t burn up some brain cells as well, did I?” he asked cautiously. 

This felt like a setup. Some sort of test, a gotcha moment waiting in the wings. Besides, Dru and loss in the same sentence? Laughable; she’d never wanted for anything, he’d made sure of it. Well, until the end, anyway. 

“It’s possible.” She nibbled at her pizza. “I know you meant well, William. I appreciate it.”

Spike didn’t know how to respond. So he just sort of stared dumbly, feeling like an absolute pillock.

"You’re a good man,” Joyce continued, unperturbed. “Well, for a vampire.”

Offended, Spike’s face screwed up. Bloody hell. He was getting soft. If Darla and Angelus and Drusilla could see him now, he’d be the laughingstock of master vampires. 

“Dammit, no, take it back. I’m bad!” He was on his feet now, scowling mutinously. Joyce blinked. “The baddest of all baddies. For a man and a vampire both. I was—am—part of the Scourge of Europe. I’ve done things that would give your nightmares nightmares. And, and, and still could, if I felt like it.”

He stomped away toward the basement, flipping up his hoodie, hands fiddling with his drawstrings. Time for a drunken sulk. A concern struck him as he opened the door, however, and Spike paused. “We’re still on for book club, yeah?”

“Of course.” 

He could hear the smile in her voice. Embarrassing. He rested his forehead against the doorframe. Might as well start calling him William the Bloody Awful Vampire, he was so whipped. No wonder no one at Willy’s respected him anymore.

With a sigh, Spike pushed away from the basement door, came back and sank down on the couch. He wanted to see how the game ended. Joyce patted him on the knee, and he should’ve found it patronizing, but instead, his bad mood vanished in a puff of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine Spike adds spices to his meals much like that two shots of vodka meme. 
> 
> Technically the Liverpool game is an anachronism (Man United played them in September that year), but it makes for a fun reference anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Book club was today.

Spike laid on his cot, holding his copy of _A Walk to Remember_ , staring up at the ceiling. He hadn’t finished the reading. Spike would like to say it was because he got bored and annoyed by all the times Landon referenced having no idea how some decision his past self made would play out. Framing devices. Utter piffle. 

He’d like to say it was because Landon was a watered-down pissant’s version of a rebel. True rebels were societal pariahs. People loved to romanticize them while failing to realize the ugly truth: rebels cared only about screwing over authority and anyone who got in the way went down with them. 

Sid Vicious was the ideal rebel in Spike’s mind—an awful person who did drugs, stabbed women, racked up STDs like other people racked up debts, created great music, and died in a flame of glory overdosing on heroin. As one should. No one should ever live past twenty-seven, it wasn’t right.

But the real reason Spike stopped reading _A Walk to Remember_ was because Landon realizing his own mediocrity, Landon getting dumped, Landon’s mom asking him to the dance, all struck an uncomfortable note with Spike. So he set it aside. And in a few hours, Joyce’s friends would be over to discuss the first few chapters, and he hadn’t finished. 

Bollocks. 

Spike sat up, slipping on his duster. He was going out, and his other sets of clothes were for Joyce’s eyes only. He didn’t mind her seeing him as William, but for the rest of the world, he _had_ to be Spike. It kept him from losing his mind over his bloody impotence, kept him from dwelling on how useless he’d become, how human. 

Joyce was in the living room, knitting a scarf, when Spike emerged carrying his trusty blanket of avoiding-death-by-immolation. She was watching some daytime soap—not Passions, she would never betray him that way—and Spike resisted the urge to sit down and watch with her. He said, “Takin’ off for a spell, Joyce.” 

“Oh.” She started, looking up, heartbeat accelerating. Spike kept forgetting how blind and deaf humans were compared to vampires. “Book club’s later.” 

Spike winced. “Yeah, ‘bout that. Don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”

“Did something come up?”

“Uh, yeah. You know me. Busy vamp, lots of things to do,” he said, mind drawing up a total blank. Why oh why was he so bad at lying? He was supposed to be evil. Evil people were great liars! If there was a handbook that’d be one of the first commandments, he just knew it. Joyce pursed her lips. 

“Well, stay safe out there. You know what the sun does to you, William.”

Her concern for his health did funny things to Spike’s undead heart. “Love flirting with sunlight, pet. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

He left before he had the chance to change his mind.

Spike could’ve skulked through the sewers like a normal demon. But there was something morbidly thrilling about seeing Sunnydale in the harsh light of day, always in danger of burning up into a pile of ash. Spike was secretly glad he no longer had the Gem of Amara. It was more exciting this way. 

Of course, he had no clue where to go, now. He’d needed to get out, escape, but hadn’t planned anything beyond that. And what with his duster starting to smoke it was a little difficult to think clearly.

Somehow, Spike wound up at Willy’s bar. The last time he’d showed his face around these parts he’d gotten his ass beat. What made it even worse was his inability to fight back. But it was late afternoon, and as such, the place was practically deserted. Willy the Snitch glanced up from where he’d been rubbing down the counter. 

A loose-skinned demon was the only other occupant. Spike thought he looked familiar but didn’t care enough to remember whether they’d met before.

“You’re here early,” Willy said. His nasally voice had Spike grinding his teeth.

“Hear anything yet about those nancy soldier boys that’s got everyone in a tizzy?” he asked. The loose-skinned demon raised his head, floppy ears, well, flopping about as they do sometimes.

“Might’ve. Memory’s a bit rusty, though.”

Spike snarled, vamping out, and Willy shrunk back. Thank the devil he’d managed to keep his performance issues mostly under wraps. This way Spike could still threaten Willy, at least. Small mercies. 

“Man, you know how it is with demons,” Willy whined, voice taking on a grating edge. “It’s all hyperbole and tall tales most of the time. ‘Oh, yeah, there were a hundred of them, and I waded through a river of their blood to escape to freedom’, yadda yadda yadda. Plus whoever those ninja fellas are, they’re doing a good job keeping themselves hidden. Smart, too. If the demon population ever pins them down, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Can’t say I blame them. Lost a lot of regulars.”

Spike scoffed, pulling up a seat and slumping over, wrapping his blanket tighter over his head. Useless. 

“314,” said the loose-skinned demon suddenly. Both Spike and Willy turned toward him. “Folks are scared. 314. Not sure what it is, but… no one knows what it is, but it’s scary. Some think the army’s manufacturing a new Slayer.”

Spike grimaced. Two Slayers in the world was already unnatural, now there might be military bigwigs going around trying to make another? Great. Just what the forces of evil needed: military interference. This was a gross injustice. 

“Name’s Clement. You can call me Clem, though.” Clem nodded at Willy, scattering skin flakes everywhere in the process. Both Spike and Willy grimaced, but then Willy started making Spike a drink, and Spike decided Clem could shed as much as he pleased. “It’s an honor to meet the Slayer of Slayers in the flesh.”

Spike puffed up. At least someone still respected him around these parts. Willy rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t get too excited, Clem. Spikey here’s pretty buddy-buddy with the Slayer these days. Makes truces with her, hangs out with her mom, even.”

“Oi, piss off!” Spike snatched the beer out of Willy’s loose grip. “Like you’re one to talk, turncoat.” 

“Whoa, really?” Clem asked. “Maybe you could be, like, an ambassador or something. Negotiate peace between humans and demons.”

Spike and Willy both stared. God, Clem was one of _those_ demons, wasn’t he? The ones that were all, ‘let’s play nice with humans and hold hands and sing kumbaya around a campfire together!’ Spike’s lip curled with thinly veiled disdain. 

The beginnings of a migraine pulsed in his temples. Why the hell had he come here, anyway? Spike could be with Joyce and Joyce’s friends right now—so what if he hadn’t finished the reading. He’d still gotten a decent way through, could fake it until he made it and all that jazz. 

“Whatever.” Spike started chugging his beer. As soon as he was done, he was out of here.

“Y’know, I hold kitten poker games in the back on Friday nights. Sure we could fit you in, if you want. And if you want to bring some human friends along, go for it! Me and my buddies aren’t the ‘eat all humans’ types.” Clem looked enchanted by his own suggestion. 

Spike scoffed, almost choking on his drink in the process. He slammed the drained glass down and stood up, pushing away from the bar. “Well, it’s been fun, ladies, but I’ve got places I’d much rather be.”

…

Joyce was a little disappointed Spike wouldn’t be attending book club. He’d seemed genuinely interested, too. Once she’d caught him reading, pen in hand, chewing on the cap, annotating his book with sticky notes, so focused he hadn’t even noticed her watching him. 

But maybe it was better this way. He might not get along well with her friends. Or they him. Spike certainly was a far cry from the white middle-class suburban mother-types that made up her friendship circle.

They were trickling in now. Becky hadn’t been able to make it, her babysitter unavailable, but Teresa, Sarah, and Janet were all gathering around the kitchen table, enjoying wine and crackers. It had been true, what Joyce had told Buffy before Halloween, about her struggles to make friends. 

But now that she’d found them, trusted them, and they hadn’t yet been brutally murdered, she was a lot happier these days compared to when she first arrived at Sunnydale. More and more, Hank and LA felt like a dream, sometimes a good dream and sometimes not, but far removed from her current reality. And Joyce was okay with that. 

“Is that tenet you were telling us about going to be here, Joyce?” Sarah asked, fluttering over. 

“Oh, yes, that mysterious friend of Buffy’s. Where is he?” Teresa straightened, sweeping the kitchen as though expecting Spike to unfold himself from the fridge or something. 

“Well, I don’t know if I would call them friends, exactly, more like, uh, work acquaintances… but he, he’s, shy, and decided—”

The backdoor to the house banged open. There was a billow of smoke as Spike appeared, throwing his blanket to the ground and stamping out the flames. Everyone recoiled, eyes wide, as he patted down his duster, glancing up. 

“Ladies.” He cleared his throat and straightened. “Sorry ‘m late, was, was out for a walk and all that. Know how it goes, I suspect.”

No one spoke right away. 

“Was it a walk to remember?” Teresa asked at last. 

Joyce giggled, unable to help herself, and the others followed suit, tittering. It was a good thing they were all already pleasantly tipsy, otherwise the whole blanket-on-fire might’ve been difficult to explain. Spike stilled, tilting his head in the cat-like way of his, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

“Something like that, yeah. I’ll, uh, I’ll grab my stuff and be right—back.” He hastened toward the basement, doubled back to grab his still smoldering blanket, and then was gone from view once more. 

The stunned silence lasted half a second. 

“Oh my god, Joyce!” Sarah elbowed her in the side, eyes wide. “You didn’t say anything about the fact that he’s smoking hot. Are you two together?” 

“What? No!” Joyce said, stopping mid-laugh over the smoking pun, mildly alarmed by the thought. Even though she knew Spike was, in fact, far older than her, it was hard to see him as anything other than a sad little lost boy, led astray by Peter Pan and never given the chance to grow up. 

“He looks like a communist.” Janet frowned before adding, “An _atheist_ communist.”

“Oh, Janet, he’s British. They’re all atheists and communists these days,” Sarah said, smiling delightedly. “Get with the times.”

Spike probably considered himself more of an anarchist, but somehow, Joyce doubted that was what Janet wanted to hear. Sarah probably wouldn’t have cared much either way. “He’s not really one for politics.”

"Is he going to be all right?" Teresa asked, staring at the basement door.

"Yes. He has a... skin condition," Joyce said awkwardly. "But he knows how to manage it."

The man in question reappeared, clutching his book with its color-coded sticky notes sticking out its side, putting a kibosh on further girl talk. Spike was still wearing his duster, something Joyce had come to realize meant he was nervous. He settled down across from them, fluid as liquid, eyes dark and unreadable. 

No one spoke right away. The uncomfortable silence extended on and on until Spike finally broke it. He coughed, straightening out of his slouch.

“I, uh, thought it was interesting that a story with obvious religious undercurrents mentioned Ephesians specifically. ‘S one of the letters Paul wrote when he was under house arrest. Allegedly, yeah? Ephesians mostly focuses on clarifying the doctrine of salvation, and the idea that the Jews and the Gentiles are both—unclean. Guilty of spiritual pride. Jews for thinking their faith and tradition elevates them above everyone else, Gentiles for trusting in their achievement and power. Thought it, it says a lot about Hegbert and Landon.” 

Spike stopped. Cleared his throat. 

Joyce was abruptly struck by an overwhelming affection for him. She didn’t even remember the supposed Ephesians reference, and she’d finished the reading yesterday. Her impressions were basic, simple; she’d enjoyed it, much like a nice summer day spent out on the porch watching people pass by, but the details all blurred together into a pleasant pastiche. 

Here they were, reading a Nicholas Sparks novel of all things, and he was dissecting some minor detail like it was _Anna Karenina._ Book club had always been much more about idle gossip and casting attractive actors as the main characters and complaining about children and spouses than actually discussing the contents on the pages. 

“But not Jamie?” Janet asked. She suddenly had stars in her eyes. 

“Well, she’s the Christ figure. Pure and good and all that—stuff,” Spike corrected himself hastily. “They’re the ones being saved through her.” 

“Lame,” Teresa said. Spike and Janet both looked offended. “They totally don’t deserve it. Jamie’s too good for both of them.” 

“Salvation’s a gift,” said the evil creature of the night, “nothing to do with deservin' it. No one deserves to be saved.”

“An act of grace,” Janet agreed. “Forgiveness.”

They then exchanged the annoyingly superior knowing look of the theologically literate. It was an expression Joyce had seen on atheists and Christians alike, and she had to drink her wine to hide her laughter. 

She hadn’t gone to church much after the divorce and stopped entirely when she found out her little girl was supposedly chosen to fight the forces of darkness all alone. But moments like these Joyce remembered the parts that had always appealed to her. It also reminded her that some things were unforgivable.

“And here you wanted to read _Harry Potter_ , Teresa my dear. Can you imagine?” Sarah drawled, resting her chin in her hand. “We dodged quite the bullet there.” 

Teresa and Joyce both shot her an exasperated look. Janet, predictably, seized upon the topic with the fury of a woman scorned. “Mock all you want, but those books are satanic witchcraft! One minute you’re all, oh, maybe I’ll get to ship my children off to boarding school for the better part of the year, the next, they’re all raging homosexuals who don’t even come home for Christmas!” 

Joyce snorted into her glass. Spike blinked, tilted his head, and then smirked, rolling his tongue behind his teeth. He asked, “That right?” 

Janet blushed bright red before launching into one of her many conspiracy theories. They were grandiose, as intricate and complex as any work of art, and far more captivating than the book currently being discussed. She spoke with a focused rhythm and intensity that would’ve put Mamet to shame, drawing connections between the three-headed beast, Harry Potter’s scar and the Illuminati and the Masons, before at last concluding, “And the devil laughs.”

A devil was laughing, all right. Spike’s smirk intensified, and now the rest of the ladies were blushing too. Joyce sighed. Time to run interference.

“More wine?” She bounced to her feet. “Lend me a hand, William.”

He pouted but acquiesced, languidly finding his feet, collecting wine glasses with flirty smiles and touches. They made their way into the kitchen and Joyce lowered her voice, saying, “Don’t sleep with my friends.”

“Aw, you'll ruin their fun.” His pout intensified. Joyce was a mixture of amused and scandalized. 

“They’re _married_ , William!”

“Well, the ol’ ball ‘n chains can join too, if they like. Vamps are all about chains, y’know.” 

She slapped him on the shoulder and he laughed, a low rumble, blue eyes bright with mischief. Maybe plying her friends with more wine was a bad idea. Spike added, “Don’t worry, Joyce. Won’t do nothing you wouldn’t like.”

And she was surprised to find she wasn’t worried at all. Joyce realized, then, that she trusted Spike just as much as the rest of her friends. Perhaps even more, despite knowing him for a far shorter period of time.

She shared a toast with Spike, glasses clinking in the drawn shade of the lazy autumn afternoon, feeling content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been intrigued by a throwaway comment Dawn makes in Real Me, implying Joyce is at least a little homophobic. I might look into that more once Willow comes out, idk. 
> 
> Memespiration for this chapter is that video where the lady talks about how monster energy drinks are from the devil. I think about that video a lot. I desperately wanted someone to ask Spike if he knew what a milf was, but managed to restrain myself, somehow. 
> 
> Buffy shows up in the next chapter, and I had way too much fun writing it, lol.


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy was sitting alone at the Bronze, drinking lemonade and watching people dance like a total loser. Because that’s what she was: a pathetic loser. Well, at least she wasn’t the type of loser who hid in bushes and spied on her exes.

She still couldn’t quite believe Angel had done that. Wasn’t he supposed to be, like, a million years old? Why had she been forced to act like the adult in this situation (why was it _always_ her??)? She needed a word that adequately explained how both dumb and immature Angel had been. 

There was probably some British phrase that covered it, half their slang was devoted to finding new and innovative ways to call people morons; she’d ask Giles later. Something with a hard consonant, a k, that would pop satisfyingly when she used it. 

God, and the worst part was that Buffy still missed him desperately. Angel was like that one bush Jesus set on fire but didn’t actually burn. Just seeing him for five minutes had done funny things to her heart. He hadn’t even gotten mad, which would’ve made it so much more satisfying, instead giving her that patented kicked puppy dog stare. It totally ruined her visit with her dad.

Ugh. Now she was acting like Spike, minus the alcoholism and the kidnappings and the just being the absolute worst, moping around after an unceremonious dumping. That was what she’d become, somehow, though, what she inspired in others. Parents’, friends’, hell, even archnemeses’ (although archnemesis might be a touch generous for Spike. He was more like a mini-boss, and wow, she’d spent way too much time playing video games with Oz—yet another person driven off because she was dating kryptonite—and Willow over the summer) relationships all went up in smoke after coming in contact with her. Poof. Gone. Hasta la vista, baby.

Maybe she should hire her services out to beleaguered couples. Buffy could see it now. It’d be in all black and white, like those old fashioned movies, and she’d have a big spinny chair and a glass of what looked like hard liquor (gross) but was actually nonalcoholic apple cider. A guy similar in appearance to Angel but definitely not Angel would come in begging her to help him put an end to the manipulative relationship some shrew of girl—who bore remarkable resemblance to Cordelia—had trapped him in. And Buffy would do it free of charge, even. 

At least Riley seemed nice. Then again, Parker had also seemed nice. Maybe she should just become a lesbian. Or a nun. A lesbian nun. Buffy sighed, pressing her forehead against her forearms.

Buffy wished she could talk to her mother about this. But her mom was very staunchly anti-Angel, which was totally unfair—wait, actually, in this instance, that would be perfect. And then later, when Buffy wasn’t quite so freaking pissed, she’d go to Willow, who would be nice and supportive while remaining Angel-neutral.

Straightening, Buffy checked the clock, saw it was still mid-afternoon and, satisfied that her plan was flawless and foolproof, set off for home. Of course, on the walk back, she had time to think of all the ways it could, in fact, go horribly wrong. Apocalypse starting, sending-your-boyfriend-to-hell, giant-snake-eating, wrong. And since she was the Slayer, it usually did, somehow, especially with the weird soldier guys lurking around lately. 

Her life _sucked._

So Buffy entered the house expecting something awful and evil to interfere with her plans, and, well, she was right. Just not quite in the way she expected.

Spike was sitting on the kitchen counter drinking milk from the carton, wearing clothes so tight they would’ve cut off circulation on someone human. Which he wasn’t. Human. He lowered the carton, staring at her, a milk mustache lining his upper lip. 

Buffy stared back.

…

Joyce arrived home later than usual, humming under her breath and twirling her car keys. She’d had a nice lunch with a cute guy by the name of Jacob, and they’d exchanged numbers, even. Life wasn’t too bad at the moment.

She opened the door to find Spike strapped to a chair, flanked on either side by Buffy and Mr. Giles. Spike jerked as soon as he saw her, trying to get words out through the—

“Did you _gag_ him?” Joyce asked, aghast. 

Buffy snorted. Mr. Giles was rubbing the bridge of his nose, glasses in his off-hand, looking very tired as he said, “Trust me, Joyce, it was entirely necessary for the sake of our sanity.”

Spike stopped struggling, briefly, to preen.

“Well, ungag him—and untie him! This is a complete overreaction.” Joyce said, frowning. 

“But _Mom_!” Buffy stamped her foot and pouted. 

“But nothing, Buffy.” Joyce responded with her best disappointed face. Buffy hesitated, cracking, before her expression hardened in that way Joyce absolutely hated. It was like her daughter transformed into a complete stranger. 

“Joyce,” Mr. Giles began, polishing his glasses, “I understand that you and, ah, and Spike have some sort of agreement in place, but he’s violent and dangerous, and to just give him run of the house is irresponsible—”

“I’m not discussing any of this until you let William go.” Joyce’s temper flared. They were talking to her like she was a child. She hated that, especially from Buffy, hated having the rug pulled from under her and the one role she felt somewhat comfortable with undermined. The beginnings of a headache throbbed.

“His name is Spike,” Buffy said, loudly, disbelieving. “And are you seriously siding—”

“—This isn’t about taking sides—”

“—with a soulless vampire—”

“—I just think this is being handled rudely and crudely—”

“—that you hid from me—”

“—I was going to tell you—”

“—your daughter who you love and adore way more than anyone or any _thing_ else—”

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Mr. Giles had his glasses back on, looking like he desperately wanted a drink. Joyce was of a similar inclination. “We’ll lose the gag, but for now, he remains in restraints. At least until this discussion is finished.”

Joyce glared, threw up her hands, and walked into the kitchen to break out the alcohol. It was her house and Spike was her guest but apparently, she was the unreasonable one. Unbelievable. 

“HELP! HELP! JOYCE, I‘M BEING OPPRESSED!” 

“Oh. My. God. Shut up, Spike!”

“UP YOURS, SLAYER!”

Wine wasn’t going to cut it. Joyce found the bourbon, serenely enjoying the tinkle of liquid against ceramic. Mr. Giles joined her, grabbing a mug of his own. Buffy and Spike were still loudly sniping at each other in the adjacent room. 

“Well, it’s not Glenfiddich, but we make do.” Mr. Giles took a swig. “The gag wasn’t _just_ for Spike, by the way.”

This would be so much easier if she hadn’t ever seen him naked.

Fortified and ready for battle, Joyce walked back into the other room. Spike was busy detailing his extensive theory that Buffy was one hundred percent the adopted demon spawn of a pack of wolves, surprisingly convincing and so well thought out that it might’ve impressed Joyce if it hadn’t been in relation to her daughter. He was spending way too much time with Janet. Buffy wheeled around, hands on her hips, scowling at the two adults.

“Do you hear him?!” she demanded. “Does anyone else hear this?!”

“I’m fairly certain the whole neighborhood hears it,” Mr. Giles said at the same time Joyce replied, “You’re not adopted, sweetie.”

“That’s _so_ not the issue here.” Buffy relaxed somewhat. Spike smirked, doing his tongue-behind-teeth maneuver. 

“Doesn’t rule out being a changeling though, Slayer,” he drawled. Buffy shot him a dirty glower; Joyce interrupted the no doubt unhelpful response.

“William, please.”

Spike’s jaw locked, a muscle working in his cheek. But he stayed quiet, staring blankly at the opposing wall. Mr. Giles studied them both, a slight frown on his face. Buffy mostly just looked disgruntled. 

Joyce raked her fingers through her hair, pushing it back and out of her face. “William’s been staying with me for the past few weeks. He was starving and needed help and he came to me. So I helped him, and he hasn’t caused any trouble in the meantime. Besides, he can’t hurt anyone.”

Buffy had folded her arms under her chest, pout intensifying the longer Joyce spoke, then blinked. 

“How do you know about that?” Mr. Giles asked. 

“William told me.” Now Joyce was frowning too. “Did you know, too?” 

“Mighta mentioned the soldier boys,” Spike said quickly, shifty and fidgeting in his seat. “Slayer would’ve turned me into a big pile o’ dust in the kitchen otherwise.”

“Yeah, really regretting not doing that now,” Buffy groused. She had a faraway look on her face, a look similar to the one Spike got, sometimes, when reminiscing about something graphically violent. It disturbed Joyce more than she cared to admit, far more than seeing the expression mirrored on Spike’s face. “Also, you didn’t tell her about Willow? Wow, how convenient for you.” 

The thought of coming home and Spike just being… gone, hurt. Someone may as well have knifed Joyce’s heart. She sipped some bourbon to try and hide the phantom pain. Wait, what was that about Willow? 

“Know what else’s convenient, Slayer? You not disinviting me from the house. Again.” Spike leered. Joyce wished he would stop calling Buffy by that awful title. 

“Trust me, also so totally kicking myself over that mistake.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“Perhaps it would be best,” Mr. Giles said with a long, deep sigh through his nose, “if Spike stayed at my flat while we sorted this out.” 

“Hell no!” Spike shouted. Joyce privately agreed, albeit in a less vulgar fashion. “And risk turning into Mini-Watcher Jr? Cuppa tea, cuppa tea, almost get shagged, cuppa tea? Over my undead body!”

“Now listen here, you insolent little—”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Joyce said hastily. “There haven’t been any issues, I don’t mind, William doesn’t mind, why change anything? And he can always come over and visit if you want to discuss the, um, the whole soldier issue.” 

She found the idea mildly alarming, now that she knew for certain it was interfering with Buffy’s school experience. Some paramilitary group running around Sunnydale? What if they were terrorists? And if they were human, how was her daughter supposed to handle them, exactly, anyway? Whenever Joyce thought she was beginning to understand the whole Slayer business, something came along to turn it all on its head.

“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because he’s an evil thing?” Buffy said, frustrated. “What if something goes wrong? What if he starts killing again? What if he decides to go into my room and act like a total creep?”

“P-please! Think that highly of yourself, gonna wind up with a superiority complex, Slayer!”

“Mom, I don’t want to put you in danger like this.” Buffy ignored Spike entirely, her lips pressed into a thin white line.

“Oi!” Spike looked indignant. “Wouldn’t do that to your mum. She’s a real lady, unlike _some_ people, not naming names.”

“Thank you, William,” Joyce said tightly. “Buffy, if something went wrong, wouldn’t that also put Mr. Giles in danger?” 

“Good point, which is why we should just stake him!” 

“I’m not okay with that.”

Spike was gazing at her with that expression of pure adoration he sometimes got in his eyes. It was both flattering and more than a little terrifying, so Joyce focused on her daughter instead. Spike wasn’t a dog, she reminded herself, he _wasn’t._

Buffy’s mouth dropped open. They stared at each other. Then Buffy swiveled to face Mr. Giles, a silent plea on her face. He was polishing his glasses again. Spike must’ve realized his life (and freedom) depended on keeping his mouth shut, because he didn’t speak. Finally, Buffy met Joyce’s eyes, shoulders slumping, and Joyce knew she’d won. For now, anyway. 

…

Joyce vanished upstairs, and he could faintly hear the pitter-patter of the shower from where he sat on the couch. Rupert had gone home, leaving Spike and the Slayer to glare at each other across the living room. He rubbed his wrists, still sore from being bound up, and slurped blood loudly out of a mug through a straw. The Slayer’s right eyebrow twitched.

“I’m staying the night,” she informed him, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what spell you’ve cast over my mother, but once I figure it out, you’ll be out on your ass _this_ fast.”

She snapped her fingers.

Bitch. Spike bared his teeth, a mockery of a grin. “Worried you’ll have to start calling me daddy, Slayer? ‘M touched, really, but **—”**

She crossed the room in a flash, knocking the mug out of his hand, her fingers tightening around his neck as she slammed him into the couch, knee digging into his sternum. The scent of her blood seared his nostrils like sound and fury. “Spike, I swear to god, if you ever even _look_ at my mom the wrong way, I’ll make you wish I’d staked you, you pig.”

The Slayer’s vice grip tightened. Spike snarled, raking his hands down her arms, snarl transforming into a hiss as pain fired off in his head. It was like someone ran his skull through with a cattle prod. She jerked back, one hand going to the bright red marks he’d scratched onto her skin, expression suddenly unreadable. 

Spike hunched over, rubbing his temples, nauseous and humiliated. Pathetic. Fuck, he was pathetic. 

“Is everything all right?” Joyce called down. She stood at the top of the staircase, wearing a fluffy bathrobe, hair still wet from her shower. 

“Fine,” said the Slayer, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt. “Everything’s fine.”

Spike stood up, brushing past her, heading into the kitchen to find cleaning supplies. Someone would need to take care of this mess. He could hear them in the other room, talking softly, and his ears pricked. 

“... I just wish you’d told me, Mom. I hate having surprises sprung on me, especially surprises of the slayage variety. A cute puppy? Nice surprise. A neutered vampire? Way less nice.”

The neutered remark was absolutely intentional. Did she know he was listening? Spike could _hear_ his teeth grinding as he grit them with barely suppressed rage. 

“I know, honey. You’re right, and I’m sorry. It just happened so fast, and it was so, I guess, so easy, and you were at college and you seemed like you were doing better and I just…” 

A pause. 

Spike ducked beneath the kitchen sink but found himself staring unseeing at the oxyclean. 

“Okay, but like, you get he’s not, you know, a person right? He doesn’t feel things like we do.”

Yes, he damn well could! Indignant, Spike almost stormed back into the other room to lay into the Slayer. But Joyce’s response helped soothe his temper.

“I don’t know if that’s true. Or, well, I know I don’t know vampires as you do, but I know William, and I—can you please trust me on this? At least for now? Call it a mother’s intuition. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and it’s not like he can go to jail, right?”

“Uh, no, definitely not.” The ‘duh’ was implied. 

The thought of being put in the slammer made Spike snicker. Most jails were controlled by demons anyway. He’d have the run of the place in a few weeks flat. 

“Right. But whatever’s in his head, it’s, it’s similar, for a vampire anyway, so the way I see it, he’s still serving time. And just because someone’s being, I don’t know, punished, doesn’t mean you can’t be kind.”

“Mom, he’s tried to hurt my friends. Multiple times.”

“I, yes, and I don’t really like thinking about that, but I don’t—I don’t know. He’s not like that around me.” 

Silence. 

Spike almost lost patience and confronted them when the Slayer spoke again. 

“Well, I mean, I’m not comfortable dusting him when he can’t fight back, anyway. So I guess we’ll see what happens. I just… worry. I love you, Mom.”

“I do too, sweetie. On both accounts.”

Spike was absurdly jealous for a moment. Whatever. He sniffed, snatching up the cleaner, and stalked into the living room. They were both silent, watching him scrub blood out of the carpet. Someone had to clean up the mess the Slayer going hero-mode always inevitably made, and it never seemed to be her or her friends for some reason. 

With a murmured word to Joyce, the Slayer went outside to patrol. Good riddance. Although judging by the rigid set of her shoulders, whatever nasties she ran across were in for one bad day. Spike kind of wanted to tag along and watch, before remembering he hated her. A lot.

Joyce sighed.

“Hell of a day, yeah?” Spike asked, trying for lighthearted. 

“William.” She sounded tired. “What happened with Willow?” 

Spike hesitated. “I mean, considering she knocked me out with a lamp, who’s the real victim here—?”

“Just. Tell me.”

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason writing from Buffy's pov is really hard for me. oh well, at least this way I can get some practice in. the meme for this one is that 'this is fine' pic of the dog while the house burns to the ground around it. honestly that picture can apply to like half the series lmao. 
> 
> also decided to make this season 4 only, and save the season 5 stuff for a potential sequel. just more manageable that way, given I have a decent chunk of projects I'm currently working on.


	6. Chapter 6

Buffy woke up drenched in a cold sweat. The remnants of the dream, involving Spike and her mom eloping to England on a cheese boat, remained vividly imprinted behind her eyelids. Getting dressed, Buffy tiptoed out of her room, quietly opening her mom’s door and peeking inside. Her mom was fast asleep and, more importantly, alone. Thank god.

Buffy gently closed the door, breathing a sigh of relief. And to think just twenty-four hours earlier she was mad about being stalked by her ex. What a naive fool she’d been. Oh, to be 24 hours younger again. 

Really, though, she only had herself to blame. Clearly Buffy hadn’t done enough to impress upon her mother that vampires were of the bad, the sort of badness that didn’t lend itself to offering them a place to crash. Doubly so when said vampire was Spike. 

Maybe she should’ve taken her mom with her on patrol. Like a field trip to the zoo, kinda. Exhibit A: telepathic mucus monsters. Exhibit B: hospital eyeball creeps. And who could forget Exhibit C: peroxided pests capable of mocking your (admittedly awful) sex life.

Speaking of which...

Spike was awake too. Or, well, he was probably getting ready to go to bed. He’d started a batch of coffee, a bowl of some weird cereal bran and—ew, gross—blood sitting half-finished on the counter. So much for hoping yesterday had been a bad dream. 

Buffy tried to imagine Angel making coffee. Or cleaning a (blood) stain out of the carpet. But the images stuttered in her mind like a caught film reel. He’d probably have stood beside the bloodstain drinking coffee brewed by someone else while pondering, like, the mortality of man or something. Frowning, she shook the stray thought away. Spike was staring at her with narrowed eyes.

“Slayer.”

“Vampire.”

They shared a glare. What was it called, a Mexican standoff? That was what was happening currently, Buffy decided. She was briefly distracted trying to figure out what a Canadian standoff might look like before the ding of the coffee machine brought her thudding back to reality. 

“So about those soldiers,” Buffy finally said. 

Spike rolled his eyes. “You allowed to do that, Slayer? Ask questions without your Watcher around to chaperone?” 

Scowling, Buffy leaned forward and grabbed the bowl, pulling it toward her.

“Oi!” Spike lunged for it. She nimbly dodged his frontal assault, scooting the bowl beyond his reach. Slayer reflexes to the rescue once again. They engaged in a brief yet intense game of cat and mouse before he gave up with a growl (who did that, anyway? Other than romance novel protagonists) of frustration. “Gimme back my weetabix!”

“Kitchen’s closed until you can tell me something useful about those commandos.” Buffy let herself bask in the glow of victory. Not so nice to be on the other end of a hostage situation, huh, Spikey? 

“Hard to remember. Was very traumatic.” His eyes glittered.

It was moments like these she wished she could hulk out into cavewoman Buffy at will. Since that wasn’t possible, she settled for happily imagining hitting Spike over the head with a boomstick. Ooh, nice form, great follow-through, the way he collapsed like a sack of bricks was immensely satisfying. 

“Cut the crap, Spike, and just tell me.”

“And then what? You ‘accidentally’ open the blinds and leave your mum a pile of dust to sweep up?” 

“Please, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than neutered vamps.”

“Oi!”

Buffy pretended to think, pursing her lips and rubbing her chin. “Flaccid?”

“You are one step away, missy.” Spike stepped closer, scowling. 

“What’re you gonna do? Scold me? Run and hide behind my mother?” 

Spike titled his head and she remembered, too late, that he had no problem hitting below the belt. 

“JOYCE! JOYCE!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “MAKE HER STOP!” 

“You are so—”

“What? What?!” Her mom came flying downstairs, dressed for work but with her makeup only half-applied. God, Spike was  _ such  _ a  _ jerk. _

“She’s trying to starve me out,” Spike said. “Just mindin’ my business, enjoying my brekky, and suddenly I’m getting the third degree. Coffee?”

He held up a mug, the picture of angelic innocence. Buffy had never hated anyone more, and she’d been willing to feed Faith to her boyfriend at one point. Her mom closed her eyes, sagging against the kitchen door frame. 

“I—sure. Thank you, William. Buffy, don’t you have class?” 

“Not until eleven,” Buffy said, slightly hurt. Joyce accepted some coffee from Spike, gripping the mug like a lifeline. Now Spike was watching them with a neutral expression, which unnerved Buffy far more than the blatant antagonism.

“William. If you could give us some time alone. It’s late for you, anyway.” 

Spike just frowned. Reclaiming his bowl of weird British food, he disappeared into the basement without another word. 

“I wanted to question him,” Buffy said, walking over and pouring herself a drink. 

“He’s not really a morning person.”

Well, neither was she, but here they were anyway.

“Mom, you know he’s not, like, a dog or a little kid, right?” Buffy asked. Her mom winced. 

“Of course I know that.” She’d pulled out a rag, rubbing down the counter. 

“Is he paying rent? Helping around the house? Doing anything useful, at all?” Buffy questioned, skeptical, trying not to sound aggressive. 

Trust. Her mom had asked for trust. And Buffy was trying, she really was, but Spike made everything so difficult. And then there was also that irrational jealousy gnawing away in the back of her mind. 

It was Faith all over again, Spike showing up and taking over her life like some sort of cuckoo. Although at least with Spike she wouldn’t be surprised when he betrayed her. And he wouldn’t try to sleep with her boyfriend. Probably. 

“He does the laundry.” Her mom looked uncomfortable. Buffy threw up her hands. 

“Oh, well, in that case, totally not a mooch at all.” 

“Buffy. Please. Can’t you at least try to be nice?” 

Buffy scowled, channeling her inner cave-Buffy. “He vamp. Me slay. We’re never gonna play nice with each other, Mom.” 

“Right. Of course.” Her mom stared at the closed window blinds. “How did the visit with your father go?” 

Buffy relented, suddenly exhausted. If her mom wanted to change the subject, fine. Whatever. 

They chatted for a while about the trip to LA, although Buffy left out the Angel shenanigans. That was the last thing that needed to be dredged up right now. But she couldn’t stop insecurity from welling up every time she caught her mom glancing at the basement door. 

...

He found her outside the Bronze. She was staring at the alleyway wall, thoughts obviously somewhere else far, far away. Spike sauntered over, affecting the swagger he often found himself slipping into around the Scoobies. 

“Poor little lost lamb,” he crooned. Willow jumped, whirling to face him, large doe eyes impossibly growing even larger. Maybe not the best way to start, but, c’est la vie. 

“Spike!” she squeaked, looking around wildly. 

Spike coughed, pulling the cue card out from his duster pocket. He set down the package he’d brought along, nudging it aside with the toe of his boot. Showtime.

“I wrote”—he paused dramatically to let the importance of the moment sink in—“you an apology haiku.” 

“A what?” Willow asked, nonplussed. 

“A haiku. An unrhymed poetic form consisting of seventeen syllables arranged in three lines of five, seven, and five syllables respectively.” Spike rattled off the definition with ease. Oh, yeah, he still had it. Like riding a bicycle. Willow frowned. 

“I know what—why?” 

“Because Joyce would’ve grounded me otherwise. Can you believe that?” Spike complained. “Who grounds master vampires? ‘S unseemly. Well, she just wanted me to say my sorries, I came up with the haiku all on my own. Needs to have some effort behind it, y’know? Like, with Dru, I used to torture people to prove how bad I felt about bollixing something up, but Joyce said I couldn’t do that, so I sussed out a plan B. We also baked cookies.”

“Oh.” Willow seemed faintly overwhelmed. 

In truth, the cookies had been to help cheer both Spike and Joyce up in the aftermath of the Slayer going total bitch mode, but Willow didn’t need to know that. Call them collateral. Also, apparently, tabasco sauce didn’t combo well with chocolate chips, although it was his personal opinion that Joyce and most other humans simply lacked vision when it came to culinary exploits. 

Willow was watching him expectantly, although her eyebrows were arched. Spike took that as the sign to pass go. He cleared his throat:

_ “It’s wrong to kidnap _

_ Threatening people is bad _

_ I apologize” _

Spike snapped his cue card with a theatrical flourish. Not his best work, but, well, he’d gotten bored in the revision stages, and then distracted by the telly. He was, perhaps, a little rusty. 

Her mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise, eyes round. Willow giggled. He wasn’t sure if laughter was an appropriate response to saying sorry—Dru often laughed, but then again, she was off her rocker—before her giggles became sobs, and Spike found himself slightly out of his element. He frowned, stifling rising panic, and tilted his head. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I,” she stammered, sniffling, before regrouping, “if you really want to make it up to me, wanna buy me a drink?”

Spike blinked. Shrugged. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” 

…

“A-a-and then all his stuff was gone!” Willow said, gripping her beer tighter. “And it was like, it really hit me, you know? Oz’s gone and he’s never coming back.”

Spike was getting a little teary-eyed himself. He’d always been a hopeless romantic. And some part of him, listening to Willow wax lyrical for the past fifteen minutes, wanted to ask,  _ “Can I date him?”  _

Instead:

“Damn. That reminds me when I realized it was over between me ‘n Dru—really over, yeah? I let her tie me up in her favorite pair of chains and put on the strap-on and she just looked bored. Bored! But a fungus demon can apparently tickle her funny bone? Humiliating, that.”

The cheating he’d hated, but been able to handle. The disinterest? Way too painful. 

“God, how did you stand her screwing around behind your back all the time?” Willow leaned forward, expression a mixture of compassion and commiseration. “When I saw Oz with that awful Verouca bitch, it was like my heart just split down the middle.”

The music from the Bronze thrummed in the background. People flitted around them, blood and sweat and blood and piss and BLOOD swirling all about. It was a heady feeling; it reminded Spike of everything he’d lost.

Spike reached for another cookie to steel himself. “Not really the type to go behind my back, for one. And for another, well, not her fault, innit? Dru’s been dealt a rough hand. Always thought that as long as I was, y’know, there for her, and her there for me, it’d work out, even when it hurt like hell.”

“I was willing to do that too!” Willow rubbed her runny nose against her sleeve. She drank some more. “You know, be there. Work it out. I could’ve helped him, but I wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t strong enough.” 

“Here’s to us and our shitty exes, who for some reason, never believe a damn word we say.” They clinked their bottles together. Spike finished his, then got up and ordered more for them both. Willow was staring forlornly at her half-eaten cookie when he returned. 

“Did you mean it?” she asked. “That you’d turn me?” 

“Of course. Wouldn’t lie about summin’ like that.” Spike grinned at her, tongue folded behind his teeth. “You’d make one hell of a vamp, Red.”

“I know. I met me. A vampire me. I even pretended to be her!” Willow looked proud.

“Get out.” Spike straightened in his seat. 

So Willow told him the story. Spike listened, fascinated; he wondered what he’d been up to in that other world. It sounded fun. 

And he wasn’t all that surprised by Willow’s admission that her vampire self had been ‘kinda gay’. Lots of people were ‘kinda gay’, they just didn’t let themselves realize it, especially in America (which Spike always found funny, considering how hoo rah rah Americans were about freedom). But once you became a vampire, it was like, fuck it, who cares: why not? 

“Damn, you lot sure managed to stir up trouble last year. Shame I missed most of it.” 

Spike felt a little left out. Him and an evil vampire Willow could’ve definitely painted the town red. Another part of him was oddly proud of regular human Willow for pulling off the impersonation. And also mildly concerned by the ever-present stupidity plaguing most of his people—no wonder the forces of good only needed one slayer, a teenage girl, to balance the scales.

“Oh, but, I mean, you got to go to Brazil! That’s cool! Minus the, the broken heart and general evilness and everything,” said regular human Willow. 

Spike brightened. He told her about Rio de Janeiro, how he got tickets to watch Flamengo play (at a steal, too, if he did say so himself) and visited Gávea and more specifically, the Baixo Gávea area. Great food, great sex, great people. His three favorite things and all of them were basically one and the same much of the time. Man, he loved being a vampire.

Drunk Willow got progressively more cheerful as the night progressed. Spike lost track of how many beers he’d imbibed before he started crying. Now Willow was the one sporting a deer-in-headlights expression. 

“God, I’m all messed up! Palling around with one of the Slayerettes like we’re best buddies or something. I need to find those soldier boys pronto so they can fix me.” He buried his head in his hands. 

“Oh,” Willow said. “Oh! Wait, maybe I can fix you!”

Spike sobbed into the crook of his arm. Even if she could she wouldn’t. He’d be all evil again, then. 

“I can give you back your soul!”

His head jerked up so fast the world spun. Spike swayed, worried for a split second he might heave, before wrestling his stomach under control. “No, you bloody well will not!”

“We could call you Ike!” Willow ignored him, caught up in her fantasy. The burning intensity in her gaze was more than a touch alarming. “It would be great!”

“No no no no no!” Spike shouted, horrified. “Ike’s are the types of blokes that live in their mother’s basement and sing Mandy at seedy karaoke bars!”

“But, Spike, you already—”

“She’s not  _ my  _ mother!” This was a vitally important distinction. “Absolutely not! I’d rather you stake me!” 

“Why not?” Her lower lip trembled. “What, you think I’m not capable? I got Angel’s soul back, you know, I could totally—”

“No, because I don’t want it!” Spike complained. “I’d be all broody and unfun. It’s called a  _ curse  _ for a  _ reason.  _ ‘Sides, it leaves if you get a happy, right? Imagine: there I am, watching the telly, Manchester United are playing Juventus, and Giggs, beautiful bastard that he is, rockets a shot past Angelo Peruzzi into the upper corner—”

“This sounds oddly specific.” Willow’s mouth was twitching.

“—1997 Champions League group game. Anyway, so the shot puts them up two, sealing the victory, and in the process, whoosh! Soul goes kaput. You’d be spending more time shoving the damn thing up my arse than getting it to stick around.” 

Silence.

“I always imagined more of, I don’t know, a fwoomping sound,” Willow whispered furtively, as though telling him a grave and terrible secret. Spike blinked before waggling his eyebrows.

“I suspect it’s rather like a blowie, myself.” He hollowed his cheeks, made a crude sucking noise. Willow started giggling, which in turn got Spike giggling, and then they were both somehow crying again. 

“Spike, I don’t want you to go back to being all ‘grr, argh’!” Willow said tearfully. “You’re actually kinda nice to talk to when you’re not doing that.” 

“But I  _ like  _ being all ‘grr, argh’!” Spike wailed. 

People were staring. Spike didn’t give a damn, although Willow might if she noticed. Which she hadn’t, yet. She was so intoxicated he could probably feed on someone and she wouldn’t bat an eye. Not much of a drinker, it seemed. 

“Mrs. Summers wouldn’t like it either, you know,” Willow sniffled. 

Spike stiffened. “Well, I mean, ‘m sure we could suss it out. We’re adults, and, yeah.”

Willow’s eyebrows were in danger of vanishing into her hairline. Spike suddenly found his hands deeply interesting. The polish was rubbing off. He’d need to touch them up sooner rather than later. 

“Wanna dance, Red?” he asked, desperate for a change in topic. A new band had come on, playing through their set, and it actually wasn’t half-bad. 

Willow blinked. Then she glanced around, as if checking to see if the coast was clear. Finally: “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” 

They stood and mosied their way over to the dance floor. Spike managed fine, although there was quite a lot of stumbling on Willow’s part. Her dance moves also left something to be desired. 

But that was fine, too. 

Spike just wanted to—not think, for a while. And also maybe calculate precisely how many bases he could reach with Willow before earning dismemberment from the Slayer. This was fine. 

The sound of music pulsed in his ears; the scent of blood pulsed in his gums. It occurred to Spike that he loved the Bronze in all its tacky glory. The fumigation parties, the shitty bands, the overabundance of teenagers. All of it. He closed his eyes, swaying, as the crowd swirled around him. Maybe everything would be okay in the end. 

Of course, that was the exact moment the Slayer and the rest of her gang found them. 

...

“You know, William, when I asked you to resolve things with Willow, getting her drunk wasn’t what I had in mind.” Joyce sat at the end of the basement stairs, massaging her temples. 

Spike was lying down on his cot, hands folded behind his head, glowering mutinously up at the ceiling. His curls were mussed but freshly bleached, faintly glowing in the dim light. 

It had been easier before Buffy found out, and Joyce could admit that she’d known that on some level, had gone along with keeping Spike a secret because of it. She could pretend Spike was just a misguided young man that way. 

Now the illusion was shattered, just like the illusion that Buffy was normal had fallen apart. No matter how hard Joyce grasped at some semblance of normalcy for herself and her daughter, it always backfired. She kept refusing to see what was blindingly obvious to everyone else.

_ I keep making the same mistakes over and over again. _

“We had a good time. Bonded. She was hangin’ on by a thread, and I helped!” Spike defended himself, sitting up with a scowl. 

“She’s underage, William.” Joyce felt tired. As much as she wanted to treat him like a child, like a puppy, Buffy was right—he was neither of those things. “You’re more than old enough to know better.”

“Ah, right, underage drinking, the secret fifth horseman of the apocalypse. How could I forget. We played beer pong at Wolfhouse last Tuesday while plotting world domination. Hell of a shot.” 

Joyce opened her mouth to retort, but a snort bubbled up, cutting her off. Some of the tense energy rolling off Spike eased at the noise. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Ever think maybe this was me knowing better? Red wanted to share a good cry with someone, forget for a bit, have a spot of fun. You can’t tell me you never did anything similar in the misspent days of your youth, Joyce.” 

She had, of course, but much of her misspent youth had been a mistake. They called it  _ misspent  _ youth for a reason. That was what learning from the past was all about, right?

Buffy had been so upset over the phone, going on about how Willow said awful things to Xander, about how it was all Spike’s influence, about how at this rate Willow would be labeling all her eggs individually and playing Celine Dion on repeat. Which struck Joyce as unfair, and the latter parts nonsensical, but then, could she really know for sure most of it wasn’t his fault? 

“That’s not the point, William. The point…” What was the point, exactly? That Buffy was making a mountain out of a molehill? And was that Joyce’s fault or a slayer thing? Or that Spike was willing to enable destructive tendencies without batting an eye? And was that Spike’s fault or a vampire thing? “... I just need you to try and be nice to Buffy. She’s my daughter.”

“Yeah, well, she's  _ my _ Slayer,” Spike snapped. Frowned, amended, “The Slayer. We’re never gonna play nice with each other.”

Buffy had said the same thing, almost verbatim, earlier. It was mildly disconcerting. 

“Spike,” Joyce said. He blinked. “You realize if you force me to choose, it’s always going to be Buffy, right?” 

Spike flinched and bit his lip, looking away. “Well, yeah. You’re a good mum. ‘S how it goes.” 

She really, really didn’t want to have to choose. 

“I  _ am _ trying, all right?” Spike continued, running his hands through his hair. “House rules are different here, though. Feels like they’re always changing when it comes to me. Hard to keep up sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” Joyce said, although she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. But it seemed to mollify Spike, because he rolled his shoulders, smiling wryly. 

“Is what it is. Still skeptical I made the wrong call with Red, though, y’know. I always handle my break-ups with booze, and I turned out great!” His smile became a grin. Joyce couldn’t help it; she laughed. “Sides, what’s the worst that can happen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added Buffy's part after this was originally finished because I wanted to explore her reaction to the discovery. But then it felt slightly segmented? So I almost made them two separate chapters, but that felt kinda mean. lol.


	7. Chapter 7

The harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom bounced off the hard white linoleum floor. Water ran in the sink, swirling down the drain with a quiet gurgle. Spike gripped the edge of the porcelain with one hand, staring at the empty mirror as he scrubbed his teeth with the other. 

The toothbrush was basic. White with little orange swirls, the bristles tightly clustered blue spirals. The package had read _OPTIC WHITE! helps remove bacteria from: Teeth, Tongue, Cheeks, Gums._ The toothpaste was basic Colegate, mint-flavored, nothing special. 

Spike wished he’d purchased something stronger. He could brush his teeth forever and he still might not get the taste of _Buffy_ out his mouth. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckety fuck. 

Bloody Willow and her meddling spells. That was the last time he let his guard down around _her_ , that was for damn sure. And the offer to turn her? Definitely off the table now. Anyone that careless with magic was dangerous the way drunk drivers were dangerous—completely out of control. 

Spike spat. The glob of toothpaste and spittle sluggishly mingled with the faucet water. He could see Angelus and Darla and Drusilla, laughing at him, along with Cecily and all his tormentors from when he’d been human. Bloody awful vampire, dirty, useless, made wrong, came back all wrong, bloody, bloody awful…

He scrubbed so hard he broke the skin of his gums. When Spike spat again, the toothpaste was tinted with dead, blackish blood as it gurgled down the drain. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had just been a bit of snogging, maybe a quick shag in the basement. Spike wasn’t blind, Buff—the Slayer was attractive. He’d had a fond wank or two while imaging her face before. Sex and violence were interchangeable in their world. 

She had a hell of a mouth on her. Most people, eyes were the windows to their soul or whatever, but the Slayer, it was all in the mouth. The way she’d pout, extend her full lower lip, wet it with her bright pink tongue, the slight twitch that preceded either a smile or a scowl, how she’d bite it, sometimes, in irritation or while lost in thought, and yeah, maybe it was also because he was a vampire and had an oral fixation, but—

_Stop._

—but the feelings, the mushiness, the absolute certainty that everything was right in the world, everything he’d ever wanted resting in his arms. Even if they were enemies it hadn’t mattered, this was how it was always supposed to be. He’d loved her. Love love love love love. God, he’d actually been _happy._ Only to have it ripped away, the curtain pulled back. When the Slayer had looked at him, really looked, mouth twisting in horror, she may as well have sucker-punched him in the gut.

Was he really that disgusting? 

Humiliating. Completely, utterly humiliating. 

Incisors, canines, bicuspids, molars (Teeth! Tongue! Cheeks! Gums!), over and around and up and down. 

The toothbrush was stained pink by the time he felt somewhat clean, and who knew if the color would ever come out. He ended up throwing it in the trash. 

…

If Joyce had learned anything over the course of the last forty-eight hours, it was that things could always be worse. She would’ve thought Spike ending up dust was the darkest timeline, but that had been before walking into the living room to see him sticking his tongue down her daughter's throat. 

Well, at least they weren’t engaged anymore. Small mercies. Joyce hadn’t really understood most of it—something about Willow, and a spell, and lots of demons—but frankly, she didn’t care, as long as it meant Spike and Buffy went back to hating each other. Who knew how long she’d be having nightmares about Buffy brandishing a ring so tacky it was only bested by a ring pop.

Spike was watching television in the living room, old Tom and Jerry reruns. He’d been unusually quiet and inactive, sleeping most of the day away downstairs. Joyce sat beside him, more than a little awkward. 

“I guess I should’ve been clear on what I meant by playing nice,” she said, trying to crack the tense atmosphere with a joke. Joyce felt a brief sense of deja vu. 

Spike scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. All one big joke, that’s me.”

He sunk lower into the couch. Joyce frowned. 

While she much preferred the return to the whole ‘you’re the worst’ routine between Spike and Buffy, did he have to act so disgusted? He would’ve been lucky to marry her daughter. Buffy was great! Creatures of the night clearly had no standards.

Joyce placed a consoling hand on Spike’s shoulder, then stood and headed into the kitchen, returning with a plate wrapped in tinfoil. 

“Willow brought over cookies while you were sleeping.” _Celeste, you have to have sex to be pregnant,_ Joyce found herself thinking rather nonsensically. “And she left you a note.” 

“Ha! As if I can be so easily bought. Who does she think I am?” 

Spike was already leaning forward, grabbing a cookie and the note, cramming one in his mouth while crinkling the other open. The breach in manner etiquette left Joyce wincing, but she showcased admirable restraint by setting the rest of the cookies on the coffee table without comment. 

Spike read the note quickly and snorted, crumpling it into a ball before tucking it away in his pocket. But his face brightened and his mood seemed much improved. Joyce was dying to know what Willow had said, but if Spike didn’t want to share, well, he deserved some privacy in his life. 

“Do vampires ever get married?” she asked instead. “Under normal circumstances.” 

Spike tilted his head. “Well, we’re not usually big on church weddings. Dru ‘n I never bothered. We did marry some folks a time or two.”

“Really?” Joyce fought the sudden urge to laugh because she knew Spike hated being made fun of for his relationship with Drusilla. 

“Oh yeah. Was a big thing with Dru. Think it’s because she was all proper Catholic as a human. Not that we married humans. Stuck to demons, yeah? There was this one couple, a vengeance demon and a warlock…” Spike trailed off, expression fond, which was a clue she probably didn’t want to know more. 

Joyce had a sudden vision, then, of Spike and Drusilla at her and Hank’s wedding (she didn’t know what Drusilla looked like, so the woman in her mind’s eye vaguely resembled Vanna White wearing a tacky black wig). They were standing between her and Hank, expressions proud, as wedding vows were shared. 

Hank had shared a funny little anecdote to start. She remembered that. The build-up to the wedding had been such a whirlwind, Joyce had been convinced the anticipation might kill her. And yet the much of the actual night itself was a blur. Through the good times and the bad, indeed. 

The Tom and Jerry skit flipped to commercial. They watched the tampon ad play in silence. 

“William. Let’s say, hypothetically, you were to get married—not to Buffy,” Joyce added the last part for peace of mind, and Spike rolled his eyes, “but to, to, a nice, not-evil girl, would you still ask me to be the best man?” 

Spike would probably have been blushing if he could blush. He shuffled his feet, restless, not meeting her gaze. “If you’d like, sure. Who else am I gonna ask? Angel?”

He scoffed. 

“You know Angel?” Joyce blurted out, even as her mind’s eye flashed back to a year ago when Spike had shown up crying on her doorstep, with that man following in his wake. Everything had happened so fast, she’d felt set adrift once more, everything she thought she’d understood turned on its head again. 

“Unfortunately.” Spike’s mouth was full. Crumbs landed on the creases of his sweatshirt. “Wanker.” 

Joyce wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but judging from his tone, she probably agreed. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

Spike paused, cookie half-hanging out of his mouth. He looked—strange, all of a sudden. Joyce didn’t understand it. 

“Yeah.” He sounded strange, too. Guarded. 

“Now Buffy can move on. He was too old for her.” Since they were both firmly anti-Angel, Joyce decided to vent some of the frustrations that had bothered her for the past year. “Not to mention not even close to good enough. She needs a nice, normal boy in her life.”

“Right.” He was picking the crumbs off his clothes, lining them up like little toy soldiers on the coffee table. Spike tended to be very enthusiastic whenever he agreed with her. Joyce sighed. 

“Go ahead and say whatever you’re thinking.” 

Spike froze. He threw her a panicked look, then collected himself. 

“Well, it’s just—and don’t take this like I’m defending Angel, yeah? can’t stand the bloke—but, like, why would a nice, normal boy want to be with the Slayer? And that’s another thing, how many nice boys are normal, anyway; isn’t ‘men are the worst’ a key pillar to, bloody hell, what do you call it, female solidarity? 

“But still, let’s say they’re out there, hiding by the barrel in the bushes or whatever. You really think Tim from accounting’s gonna be okay with his honey running off into the night to fight beasties? And that’s if she even tells him, which, lies and miscommunication, oh sure, the dreams relationships are made of.” 

“So, what are you saying? That nice, normal guys want to be with nice, normal girls?” Joyce asked, affronted.

“Well, yeah.” It seemed pretty clear cut to Spike. “Can we go back to pretending none of this ever happened?” 

The commercial break ended. Tom was currently getting a piano dropped on his head. It looked quite painful. 

Joyce stood up. Fetched a rag from the kitchen. Cleaned the coffee table. Sat back down on the couch. Thought about how she’d never gotten to see Buffy graduate. No graduation, no engagement, nothing. Abruptly, she burst into tears.

“She was just a baby, William.” Joyce couldn’t stop crying once she started. “She’s still my little baby girl.” 

Spike’s jaw was on the floor. He snapped it shut. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned over, patting Joyce awkwardly on the back. “There, there. Give the Slayer some credit, yeah? Closer to a toddler, I’d say.” 

Joyce choked on a laugh-sob. Somewhat hysterical, she noted that at least this way the therapy was free. Spike didn’t speak again, just continued patting her on the back while Joyce’s grief ran its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wound up angstier than I expected. Oh well, can't have them all be light and fluffy. I didn't want to mess too much with Something Blue because that episode is a comedic masterpiece lol. Plus I have a bit of a thing for exploring the fallout/aftermath of funny episodes in a serious way.
> 
> I'm pretty wrapped up in a bunch of holiday writing events, so my output will probably slow down. I've already started the next chapter because I fucking love Hush (I know, I know, how could I say something so controversial and yet so brave?) and have a ton of ideas for it, but... yeah. After that, things might be more up in the air.


	8. Chapter 8

_Everything was shaded black and white. He reclined in his chair, smoking a Cuban cigar. It settled, a dull haze, over the office. Pictures of him, Dru, Darla, and Angelus littered the desk. The sun was setting beyond the drawn window blinds._

_Someone knocked at the door._

_He opened his mouth to say enter but the words wouldn’t exit his throat._

_Buffy opened the door. He could see Rupert and Harris behind her, hovering protectively in their apeish way. She held thick posters up in her petite hands. There were words on them, statements that she shuffled through, expression blank and flat. It read:_

**_I don’t know how to say it_ **

**_But now’s as good a time as any_ **

**_Maybe the best time_ **

**_Maybe the only time we ever hear each other is in between_ **

**_In the silent moments_ **

**_I wronged you_ **

**_I wronged your family_ **

**_And for that I’m sorry_ **

**_I’d like to make amends_ **

**_If that’s alright with you_ **

_He put out his cigar, sticking it in the ashtray. They stared at each other for a long time. Jazz music played in the background, a mournful saxophone sliding into a lingering solo._

_After a pause that spanned two heartbeats, he climbed onto the desk. Rupert golf clapped to show his appreciation. British wankery of the highest order._

_(be a real boy, now)_

_They came inside. Rupert and Harris pinned him down. Buffy pulled out a knife and neatly began cutting out Spike's heart._

...

Joyce woke Spike up. 

She never woke him up. 

Startled, he sat bolt upright. Opened his mouth. No words came out. 

Spike grabbed at his throat. Joyce was staring at him with wide eyes, face wan, mouthing the question, _You too?_

He swung out of bed, remembered that Joyce never woke him up because he slept naked. She looked away, obviously embarrassed, fidgeting in place. Spike got dressed, losing some of the unease as he slipped on his familiar duster, smoothing down the leather before turning to face her. 

He’d been dreaming and could almost remember it. The black and white shades slid away, replaced by the dim sepia toned earthiness of the basement. Spike growled soundlessly. 

What the hell had the Slayer and her crew done this time? God, if Willow had cast another spell, he would lose it. He followed Joyce upstairs, the creak of the stairs squeaking loudly in the silence. 

She pointed at the telly, where the news was playing. Some sort of epidemic plaguing Sunnydale, forcing a lockdown. Laryngitis. Really, laryngitis? God, the stupidity of Sunnydale residents never ceased to amaze Spike.

As much as he loathed admitting it, this probably wasn’t the Slayer’s fault. Silencing an entire town wasn’t exactly her style. Willow, maybe, but did she have access to that level of witchcraft? Somehow he doubted it. Talent and ability were two different things. 

Spike’s skin itched. This was dark stuff. Ancient. Powerful.

Joyce was sitting on the couch rubbing her arms. Spike realized he’d begun pacing and stopped, going and sitting beside her. All of his instincts were screaming to run. Hide. Keep Joyce safe. But he couldn’t fight; he couldn’t protect her. And even if he could, this didn’t seem like a fight he could win.

Spike often projected the aura of a romantic warrior, but in reality he was a pragmatic survivor. He knew when to cut his losses and run. How to stay hidden as the mob went marauding through Prague, as the Slayer and her Scoobies swept through the burned down factory, as Angelus crossed the one line a bridge too far even for vampires. Even for family. 

Joyce walked into the kitchen. Walked out. She held a miniature whiteboard in her hands. She scribbled something on it:

**WHAT NOW?**

Spike frowned, reaching out and writing out an answer:

**SAFETY**

She flipped the whiteboard, studying his answer. Her eyebrows knitted together. 

**BUFFY?**

Spike sucked in an unnecessary breath. No. No, that wouldn’t help. The Slayer was a danger magnet—and besides, having her mum around would just distract both her and Joyce. He shook his head. Joyce didn’t look happy. 

**NEED HER SAFE**

Spike wanted to swear. Loudly. Explosively. Violently. The Slayer was the last person that needed protecting. He ran his hands through his hair, ran his mind through his options.

He had an epiphany. It wasn’t a perfect plan by any stretch of the imagination, and if it went wrong, if anything happened to Joyce, he’d either walk out into the sunlight or onto the Slayer’s stake, but it was all he had. 

Spike gently took the marker from her. He asked:

**TRUST ME?**

Joyce paused. Then she nodded, expression determined. Hell, just then, she looked exactly like the Slayer.

**OF COURSE**

Spike wanted to tell Joyce he would die for her. He was glad he couldn’t speak. It would’ve scared her.

…

Willie’s bar was crowded with silent figures. Seeing drackflrocks, normally loud boisterous creatures who greeted one another with bellows and gouts of flame, sitting quietly drinking shots at the counter felt more than a little surreal. A strange, muted restlessness stifled them all.

Joyce followed close on Spike’s heels, heart rate increasing as many eyes (or eye in the case of the cyclops in the corner) turned in their direction. Spike carried himself as though he were a good three or four inches taller than his actual height, marching toward Willie. 

**IS CLEM HERE**

Willie worried at his patchy lower lip. His eyes darted to Joyce and then back to Spike. After a moment, he grabbed the white board, scribbling a reply on it.

**are you trying to get me killed???**

Underneath was a picture of a girlish stick figure. Spike could only assume it was the Slayer, although an artist Willie was not. Besides, the hips were all wrong. 

Spike quickly erased the message. If Willie hadn’t yet figured out the Slayer wasn’t the type to harm humans (beyond a bit of rough housing), well, no skin off his nose. But still, better not give Joyce undue concern. He raised his eyebrows toward the backroom. Willie rolled his eyes and nodded, a hostile jerk of his head. 

Spike saluted, sardonic, before turning and plowing into someone. She smelled familiar, like—

Oh, bollocks.

Harmony stumbled back, mouth open in a soundless squeak, before drawing herself and her rather ample bosom up. She gestured emphatically, and for the first time, Spike was quite grateful that no one could talk. He forced himself to face her, pantomiming a dramatic scoff before brushing past.

Joyce was staring over her shoulder at Harmony. He could almost see the mental wheels grinding away, and hoped she wouldn’t ask questions later, when things returned to normal. Please let things return to normal soon. 

Clem sat alone at the poker table in back. He was morosely sticking a card in the many folds of his skin. A kitten popped its head out of the ante basket, watching them approach with large eyes. It yawned, tongue bright pink in a dark maw, and Joyce cooed silently beside him. Hopefully Clem wouldn’t eat the damn thing in front of her. 

Clem followed the kitten’s line of sight, his own sagging, bloodshot gaze resembling a basset hound, head tilting to the side as he lip synced Spike’s name. Spike scowled in response. 

**WHAT’S GOING ON?**

He tapped on the whiteboard for emphasis. Clem shrugged, shaking his head, ears flopping about like fish out of water. Reaching out, he started to write a response, although it took several seconds longer because the marker was running out of ink. 

**THEY ON** LY TAK **E HU** MAN **HEAR** TS

Oh, well, in that case—who cared? But Spike already knew Joyce did. The urge to whine about how unfair his unlife had become welled up, but he managed to quash it. Not like he really had a choice either way anyway. Besides, Joyce was human, which meant she was in danger too. 

Joyce was petting the kitten now, curiously turning over some of the cards. She looked completely out of place in the seedy poker room, what with her permed hair and pressed clothes, and yet somehow still completely at ease surrounded by monsters. Summers women were a strange breed. 

KE **EP H** ER S **AFE**

Stupid marker. Spike shook it, lip curling into a snarl, while Clem considered them both. After a moment, he nodded, placing a hand over his stomach. Loose skinned demons’ hearts were in their stomach. 

Spike responded with a vaguely threatening gesture, hoping the promise of violence would prevent any daft plans. But Clem seemed a decent sort; having played a few rounds of poker with him, Spike knew he cheated in a much more honest way than most demons.

Spike started to leave. Joyce hit the table, getting his attention. She clutched the kitten close to her chest, bearing an expression of concern. The kitten began to struggle, mewling silently. Spike walked over and gripped her shoulder. He arranged his face in what he hoped was a reassuring expression, mouthing the words, _I’ll be back soon._

Joyce frowned. Then she glanced at the poker table, before returning her gaze to Spike. Her frown transformed, and she responded, _You owe me a game._

Spike grinned. Fine lady, Joyce. Better than the Slayer deserved, really. Nodding at Clem, Spike tightened his grip briefly before releasing Joyce, swaggering back out into the main area of the bar. He scanned the room, brow knitted, before bounding over to the counter and leaping atop it. Willie stumbled back, clattering into the opposite while, as Spike rapped on his white board with the marker, getting everyone’s attention.

 **NE** Eddddd **D**

Spike erased the bollixed message, all the curses welling up kept mum by whatever moronic spell currently gripped Sunnydale. He tried again:

**NEED INFO**

**WHERE AR** E THEY?

Silence. Many, many eyes glowered at him. Finally, a rlafge demon wrote out a message on a pad of paper. They tore the sticky note free, slapping it on the counter for Spike. 

_And why should we help you, traitor?_

The rlafge wrote in beautiful cursive. Wanker. Spike crumpled the sticky note into a ball, throwing it at the rlafga demon. It bounced off their big, scaly forehead. Their eyes twitched.

Spike wanted to threaten to tear everyone there limb from limb if they didn’t listen. But he couldn’t exactly make good on that promise, could he? So he improvised, and instead wrote:

 **BEC** AUSE **THE** Y **T** OO **K OU** R VOICE **S TOO**

No one moved. Just as Spike was about to give up and dramatically storm out, Harmony stood. The hint of something resembling a flicker of a thought gleamed in her vapid blue gaze. 

Hopping on the counter, she took the marker from him, writing on the white board still clasped in his hands. Spike had to crane his neck to get a good angle. He’d have one hell of a crick after this.

 **I’** M W **ITH YOU** BLONDIE BEAR

Harmony then spent a good minute drawing a heart around the message. The dying marker squealed like a stuck pig, and Spike could feel the tattered remains of his reputation dying along with it. He closed his eyes. This was hell: other people. 

…

Spike tracked the Slayer’s scent, heading in the direction of UC Sunnydale. Harmony followed him, which he allowed, considering she couldn’t talk and he couldn’t defend himself. Yet another in a long list of humiliating situations, but such was life. 

Sunnydale didn’t look so hot either. People were in disarray on Main Street, chanting and wailing about the end times. The liquor store was open 24/7, even. Personally, Spike found it all rather neat. He had to force himself to focus. 

They moved away from Main Street, along darker back roads. Their footsteps rang in Spike’s ears like thunder, and he heard the trouble approach long before it arrived. Two trundling wannabe Hannibal Lecter creatures, unrestrained arms flailing about, rounded the corner and made a beeline toward them.

Spike immediately did the sensible thing; he pushed Harmony between himself and danger. Her own arms windmilled, and she spun around to snarl at him, fangs bared, before they were on her. Harmony collapsed in a heap, a whoosh of air forced out of her undead lungs. Spike jumped back, wondering if he could dash past the pile to freedom. But she shook them off, matching their flails with her own.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ Harmony was an _awful_ fighter. Keeping himself at a safe distance, Spike’s mouth drew tight in horror at the amateurish display. All that time he’d spent shagging her when she couldn’t even bob and weave properly. No wonder those nancy boy ninja soldiers had neutered him; he was a disgrace to master vampires everywhere.

Harmony was engaging the Hannibal wannabes in a slap fight, now. Bloody hell. Spike started hopping up and down, making twisting motions with his hands. Distracted, she glanced over at him, and got a face full of straightjacket for her efforts. She grappled awkwardly with them, managing to grab one by the head and break its neck. The crack had a seething fury to it in the dead silence.

Atta girl! Spike punched the air, pleased his teachings were already taking root. Letting Harmony tag along had been a wise decision after all.

The other Hannibal wannabe backed up, disengaging from the fight. At the far end of the alleyway, a tall, dark humanoid drifted past. It flashed a silver smile Spike’s way, crooking a finger and beckoning the Hannibal wannabe to follow. The thing listened, turning and heeling to its master’s side. They were gone like a forgotten whisper.

Spike suddenly felt far less victorious. Sometimes he forgot there were far worse creatures that went bump in the night, and reminders always came as a nasty shock. He needed to find the Slayer. 

He stalked past Harmony down the alleyway, intent on going in the opposite direction of their assailants. The scramble of her finding her feet was his only warning, as she spun him around and punched him. 

Ow. Why was it always the nose? Spike stumbled away, scowling. Harmony scowled back, tried to speak, clearly remembered she couldn’t, and released a strangled huffing sound. Spike rolled his eyes, before pointing at the carcass, at her, then gave her a thumbs up. Harmony blinked. A beam lit up her face.

She puffed out her chest and flounced past, the flounce of the 'we're-definitely-never-getting-back-together-but-victory-sex-isn't-necessarily-off-the-table' variety. Spike smirked despite himself.

They crept along the alleyways without further incident. Spike had Harmony keep watch outside the dormitory—while it would’ve been funny, no point putting her at risk of getting staked—and tracked the Slayer by a mixture of scent and memory to her dorm room. 

He could hear someone rustling about inside. More importantly, the familiar trill of danger sang down his spine, letting him know it was most certainly _not_ Willow. Spike almost barged in, but hesitated at the last second. He didn’t particularly want to risk a stake to the heart either. Making a face, he knocked on the door.

The rustling stopped. Nothing was happening, and Spike was growing impatient. Just as he was about to rip the door open, there stood the Slayer, all decked out in her female empowerment outfit, tense as a drawn bowstring. She relaxed at the sight of him, which Spike found deeply offensive. But, whatever, focus. 

_My mom?_ mouthed the Slayer. Spike scoffed silently before responding with, _safe._

They stared. Both had made a pointed effort to ignore the other since Willow’s spell. Something about the current situation felt oddly surreal, and it had nothing to do with the inability to speak. Spike frowned, tilting his head. Take away the loud bravado, the sharp quips and digs, and what was left? He didn’t really know.

_Truce?_

The Slayer didn’t answer at first. Instead, she closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the doorframe. At last, she opened the door wider, inviting him in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone. Here's to a better year than the last.
> 
> This was an interesting chapter to write. It might feel kind of different from the others? Then again, tonally Hush felt pretty different from a lot of the series too, so I think it fits. Hmm.
> 
> Also this is where I admit unabashedly and unashamedly that I’m the self appointed number one Harmony stan and that’s on god.


End file.
